


Forever Hold Your Peace (or, Five times Sherlock interrupted John's wedding, and the one time he interrupted his own)

by BettySwallocks, mycapeisplaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1 format, Crack, Divorce, Drama, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Musicals, Romance, Weddings, idiots finally getting things right, wedding sabotage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettySwallocks/pseuds/BettySwallocks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock reviews his...creative...imaginings of how he could have interrupted John's wedding the night before he finally marries the only man he's ever loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mind Palace Cinema

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Или молчите вечно...(Пять раз, когда Шерлок срывал свадьбу Джона, и один раз, когда сорвал свою собственную)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929617) by [hirasava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hirasava/pseuds/hirasava)



> Author’s Note: I’ve done my research about the differences between weddings in the UK and the US. The line in question - the “forever hold your peace” bit - is actually said before the vows in the UK and really is a question whether anyone knows any reason why the couple should not lawfully wed, not to be used as an opportunity to declare a secret love. 
> 
> Anyway, for those of you who wanted to see Sherlock dramatically interrupt the wedding, this one’s for you!
> 
> I also finally coerced BettySwallocks, my British beta and friend, to write! The musical is all hers. Give her a warm welcome to the world of fanfic writing!

FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE  
(Or, Five times Sherlock interrupted John’s wedding, and the one time he interrupted his own)

 

In the morning, Sherlock Holmes will marry John Watson.

For the moment, however, he is in Regent’s Park, alone, in the dark, smoking a cigarette. Call it a case of nerves, introspection, inability to deal with a tide of intense emotion. There was nothing left to do but wait...and think.

John sometimes refers to his marriage to Mary as his and Sherlock’s “first marriage,” and maintains that this time around, when he is actually exchanging vows with the right person, there is no need for extravagant flower arrangements, sorbet-hued bridesmaids dresses, or murderous photographers. When Sherlock had suggested formal invitations, John had promptly said bollocks to that idea and insisted they should get married in Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre and that Mycroft perform the ceremony. They could have drinks and sandwiches with a few close friends and then afterwards bugger off to Sussex for a week and that was that.

Sherlock had simply raised his eyebrows and agreed. After all, he’d planned nearly every detail of John’s first wedding. It was only fair to let John plan his second. John approached it with military efficiency, right down to arranging a rickshaw ride for Mrs. Hudson, whose hip now bothered her so much that she rarely walked anywhere farther than the corner shop.

John wanted to get married quickly and without much hullaballoo. He did, however, decide to go out the night before with Lestrade, who was still pissed off that he wasn’t invited to John’s first stag night, and insisted he deserved a proper night out with his mates after the total cock-up of Sherlock’s meticulously-planned evening of debauchery. (Sherlock maintains that had they not been interrupted, that evening would have ended very differently, and that first ill-fated marriage would not have happened at all. John does not disagree).

According to John, Mary had always believed that Sherlock had approached the Morstan-Watson wedding as a man who wanted nothing more than to get it over with, displacing his great trepidation and fear with the fervour of preparations. Sherlock had never doubted her ability to see right through him. She really was very clever. 

The months between his return to London and John’s wedding to Mary were an emotional turmoil for Sherlock. During his time away, he had missed John terribly, more so than he had ever thought he would, ever could, miss anyone. On cold nights, or when he was in pain, or actually hungry, or exhausted, he’d recall their cases. He’d evoke images of home and companionship: John in his chair, watching telly; John, hunkered under his parka as they spent hours on surveillance; John, gesturing wildly, furious about something unimportant. 

And then there were those moments they’d shared together, those moments that weren’t exactly platonic: closer proximity than necessary, a hand on a shoulder, a gaze held too long, the hitch of breath or race of pulse. There _was_ attraction there, whether John denied it or not. Sherlock was convinced that it would take so little to tip the scales, to push their friendship into the realm of romance. At the time, though, the idea was terrifying. Sherlock didn’t _do_ relationships. No one had ever held his interest like John did, and somewhere in there, Sherlock was absolutely terrified that if one day their hands were to join just so or their mouths finally meet, the equilibrium he’d finally reached would be once again destroyed. Not worth the risk. He was content to carry on indefinitely and probably would, had a certain set of events not sent him off on a dangerous mission to keep the only person he cared deeply about from harm.

Away from John, he forced himself to push those memories aside, but John burned like a small, stubborn candle at the back of his mind while he relied on his intellect to dismantle Moriarty’s network. Somewhere along the line, he’d convinced himself that John would be right there, waiting for him to return. John would continue being John, as he always had: John who wore bad jumpers, who made good tea, whose hands never shook around a gun. 

He really was (much to his older brother’s amusement - the bastard) shocked to discover that time really does wait for no man, not even for the great Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn’t until he walked into that restaurant, determined to swoop back into John’s life, that he realized the chasm he’d made when he convinced John he’d died, how much he’d damaged him. It was also in those very few seconds upon entering the restaurant and seeing John there, moustached and nervous, that Sherlock realised John was going to propose to a woman and that was simply the worst conceivable consequence of his leaving. It was also then, at that moment, that all the _feelings_ Sherlock had for John finally aligned, like some rare planetary event, and he knew the truth of his existence: he loved John Watson, loved him so desperately, and that any opportunity they had to become lovers had passed.

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s heart wasn’t nearly as mature as his mind at that moment, so it did what hearts do best when they’re broken: it turned to sarcasm, ridicule, biting humour. He promptly ruined John’s attempt at a romantic proposal and earned several bruises, bumps, and lacerations for his trouble.

John may have never forgiven Sherlock had it not been for one smoky emergency and Mary’s instance that they talk. Then there was a tense moment in a tube carriage and Sherlock had let John panic simply to force the issue of forgiveness. They were crap at talking about the big, important stuff. So many things always left unsaid. Nothing like tense moments to skirt around the real issues, those lurking behind insults. _You cock_ , John had said. _Of course I forgive you._

There were a few cases, nothing incredibly important. Sherlock took them on just for the opportunity to be Sherlock and John again, and then John had to go and ruin everything by telling Sherlock he loved him (in a purely platonic way, of course) and wanted him to be his best man. 

Mary was interesting, at least. In fact, Sherlock even sort of liked her, even if there was something not quite right about her. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but then there was something not quite right about John, too, so what did it matter. John was still himself when he was around her, which was more than Sherlock could have ever hoped for if John found it necessary to enter the institution of marriage with a woman. She was older than John’s usual type, and she had a decent sense of humour: quirky, a bit offbeat. 

But Mary was taking John _away_ , and after two years without John and his newfound realisation that he was deeply in love with his former flatmate, Sherlock was floundering.

“Don’t interfere,” Mycroft had warned as the wedding drew closer. Sherlock had pouted at him. “Whatever you thought could be, that time has passed. You don’t know what he went through. Let him go.”

Sodding Mycroft.

As the wedding grew closer, Sherlock struggled to pen the best man’s speech, realising he was writing a confession. If he couldn’t have John, he would do everything in his power to make the man happy. Sherlock owed it to John. He would make a vow, the only vow he thought he would ever make. One to John, and, subsequently, the woman he had chosen to marry. He would do his best to finally tell John how important he was, how elemental, how necessary to living.

It’s what you do for people you love.

But he wasn’t happy about it. The nights before that particular wedding were spent much the same way he was now, loitering in the park, puffing away, sitting in dark places, thinking dark thoughts. 

For as logical as he is, Sherlock does have a fairly healthy imagination. The month before John’s wedding, Sherlock was spinning utterly ridiculous scenarios of how to disrupt the nuptials that would ruin his chance of ever being more than John’s best friend. Plotting nefarious schemes did serve a purpose in solving crime, after all. And he does so love a good bit of drama. 

Unable to let anything related to John go, Sherlock committed those scenarios -- from the plausible to the absolutely insane -- to memory on old-fashioned film reels stored in a sealed box in the projection room of his Mind Palace’s cinema.

The movie theatre was actually John’s idea. Sherlock had very little use for something as tedious as watching film in an actual cinema, but he found the distance from his memories, being able to play them, take a step back and observing from a distance, frequently helpful in solving crimes. So he built a reproduction of the Electric Cinema in Notting Hill, complete with decorative plasterwork, plush velvet seats, and thick, heavy curtains.

Now, the night before what he likes to call “the real wedding,” he’s unpacked that box. It’s time to delete those imaginings. They are no longer useful and they remind him of his failure to connect with John intimately before he took a leap off a roof and completely compromised their friendship. His least selfish act - letting John go, watching him exchange vows with Mary, and promising to keep the two of them safe from harm - still feels like raw, still rankles in the back of his mind, even though John has told him, again and again, to let it go. They had each caused each other heartbreak and despair, but now they could devote themselves to each other in a way they could not have a few years ago.

Sherlock would project those films one last time, for posterity, then chuck away the reels to make way for the rest of their lives together.


	2. Archie

ARCHIE

In his mind palace, he runs his fingers over metal film canisters, wondering where to begin. Ah, yes. This one. In Sherlock’s younger years, before he found the behavior too juvenile and discovered other ways to disturb his older brother, a certain way to wind up Mycroft Holmes was to surprise him during moments of intense concentration. About the time Mycroft was studying for his A-levels, Sherlock had taken a great interest in all things insect. He admired anything that wore a shell and had its soft parts on the inside (he’d taken an interest in Kafka that summer and ardently hoped he could wake up one day to find himself turned into a beetle. That would show _them_.) A centipede caught in the garden and strategically placed up the trouser leg of one stressed-out older brother earned him a thrashing from Mycroft and a week without sweets from Mummy, but the sound that came from Mycroft’s mouth - a shrill, feminine thing - had made the prank totally worth it.

Late spring. A church. The exact location of the church is irrelevant, although it is the chapel of St. Mary Magdelene’s in Bristol. It’s a beautiful day. The gardens are lush and verdant, ivy clings to weathered stone walls, and the lilacs are in full bloom. It’s a perfect day for a wedding, and, indeed, a wedding is taking place inside.

Inside the chapel, a man and a woman stand at the altar, their hands clasped. The man is smiling. He is wearing a smart grey suit with tails. Somehow, he looks more radiant than the bride, but that may be a trick of the lighting. He is John Watson. The woman is just as short as the man whose hands she’s clasping. Her lace dress is beautiful, her blonde hair artistically styled with flowers. She looks tearful, but very happy. She is Mary Morstan. The chapel is not entirely full of guests, but there are a number of people gathered to see this couple wed. It is a joyful occasion for everyone.

Everyone, that is, except the best man, who stands, tense as a spring, to the left of the groom. There’s a line drawn between his brows and his lips are slightly turned down. It’s not quite a pout, but it is clear that this man is both unhappy and uncomfortable. He is Sherlock Holmes, known to most in the audience as John’s unusual friend and solver of unusual crimes (and a bit of a prick). Sherlock never looks particularly happy, except at a crime scene, so seeing him look put out surprises no one.

Next to Sherlock Holmes is Archie, aged 8. His face has mischief written all over it. He is the first child Sherlock has met in a long time to have anything resembling a brain in his head. Sherlock likes him.

To the right of the bride stands an attractive young woman with dark hair. She is sniffing back happy tears. She is Janine. Faces of friends smile from the audience: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, first name unimportant.

The bride and groom are preparing to say their vows, and the vicar is raising his hands to conduct one of the traditional elements of a wedding.

“And now, if there is anyone present who objects to the joining of these two people in holy matrimony, may they now be heard.”

No one notices Sherlock at all, who is frowning harder than ever. His gaze, however, isn’t on the bride and groom. Instead, he is looking intently at Archie. If his “wedding gift” is going to make an appearance, they’d better get on with it. Then, as if on cue, Sherlock notices something move inside Mary’s veil.

This is the moment he - and Archie - have been waiting for.

“Mary?” Archie’s voice is innocent and questioning.

Mary makes a face of amused surprise to the audience before dropping John’s hands and kneeling in front of Archie. “Do you object, sweetie?”

“Oh no. I just wanted to tell you that there’s a spider. A really, really big one. Looks poisonous, too. In your veil, just there, and it was about to…”

Mary’s eyebrows draw together, and her hand flies to her head. Indeed, there’s a spider. A rather large spider. In fact, Sherlock knows, there are four of them - it never hurts to be prepared. A spindly arachnid that is certainly not native to the UK (Sherlock called in a favour from a former client who happened to work at the B.U.G.S. exhibition at London Zoo to get the buggers -- large but relatively harmless Australian hunstman spiders) works its way out of the folds of lace and runs across Mary’s collarbone. .

“John!” she shrieks.

“Jesus!” says John, startled, who then looks at the vicar in apology. “Sorry.”

Mary pulls the veil from her head, ruining her expensive updo. One spider falls off and disappears down her cleavage, and she is no longer handling the situation with much aplomb. “John!” she calls again, and points to her breasts. “Oh God! It’s in my dress!” She begins to dance and try to shake it out.

John goes about trying to get his hands down his bride’s bodice without offending anyone. It’s great comedy. Sherlock is trying very hard not to smile, but to be honest, no one’s noticing him at the moment.

Janine, meanwhile, has turned very pale. She drops Mary’s bouquet, which promptly gets trampled underfoot as general chaos spreads among the bridal party, who have apparently forgotten about vows and have now turned into pest controllers. The spider that had made its home in Mary’s cleavage has now found its way out of the bottom of her dress and is making a beeline--or should that be a spiderline--for Janine. It’s so large that it looks like a mouse skittering across the red carpet. Janine faints dead away. John leaves his bride to deal with the spiders as he tends to Janine. Molly is yelling something about not hurting the spiders and tries to collect them in her hat.

Everyone seems to be moving. Everyone, except Sherlock, who stands still as chaos spreads around him. The frown that was once upon his lips, however, has changed. He wouldn’t be exactly smiling, but if you know what to look for, you’d see a man rather pleased with himself. He holds his hand out. Reaching behind his back, Archie’s small hand meets Sherlock’s large one in a sly but satisfying high-five.


	3. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A messy, yet effective, way to stop a wedding...

POISON

Sherlock threads the projector. This scenario just might have worked. But it would have only delayed the wedding, not prevented John exchanging vows with Mary. Nevertheless, it makes him chuckle to think of causing such a scene. Of all the ways to interrupt a wedding, this one was by far the most unpleasant - and messy.

Late spring. A church. The exact location of the church is irrelevant, although it is the chapel St. Mary Magdelene’s in Bristol. It’s a beautiful day. The gardens are lush and verdant, ivy clings to weathered stone walls, and the lilacs are in full bloom. It’s a perfect day for a wedding, and, indeed, a wedding is taking place inside. 

Inside the chapel, a man and a woman stand at the altar, their hands clasped. The man is smiling. He is wearing a smart grey suit with tails. Somehow, he looks more radiant than the bride, but that may be a trick of the light. He is John Watson. The woman is just as short as the man whose hands she’s clasping. She is not what anyone would call classically beautiful, but she definitely has the glow of a woman very much in love. Her lace dress is beautiful, her blonde hair artistically styled with flowers. She looks tearful, but very happy. She is Mary Morstan. The chapel is not entirely full of guests, but there are a number of people gathered to see this couple wed. It is a joyful occasion for everyone. 

Everyone, that is, except the best man, who looks like he’s about to keel over. He’s pale and sweating. He is Sherlock Holmes, known to most in the audience as John’s unusual friend and solver of unusual crimes (and a bit of a prick). Sherlock never looks particularly happy, except at a crime scene, so seeing him look a bit off surprises no one, except for Mary, who occasionally eyes the best man with...concern? Suspicion? Triumph?

Next to Sherlock Holmes is Archie, aged 8. His face has mischief written all over it. He is the first child Sherlock has met in a long time to have anything resembling a brain in his head, but at the moment, the child’s rocking, fidgeting, and inability to stand completely still are making Sherlock feel even more woozy. 

To the right of the bride stands an attractive young woman with dark hair. She is sniffing back happy tears. She is Janine. She has her eyes on Sherlock and is thinking about what he looks like under that formal outfit. Faces of friends smile from the audience: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, first name unimportant. 

The bride and groom are preparing to say their vows, and the vicar is raising his hands to conduct one of the traditional elements of a wedding.

“And now, if there is anyone present who objects to the joining of these two people in holy matrimony, may they now be heard.”

Sherlock makes a noise. It’s an unpleasant sort of noise that speaks of the unpleasantness going on his belly.

You see, today is a bad day for Sherlock. Not only is he emotionally compromised, having to watch the man he loves marry someone else, he loathes weddings in general and is uncomfortable with the sheer number of people wearing fancy clothes and overpowering perfume. Any of these things is enough to turn Sherlock’s stomach. The thing is, however, that at the moment, on top of the nervousness, disappointment and heartache, Sherlock Holmes has a belly full of food and a raging salmonella infection.

24hrs earlier, Sherlock was removing a specific strain of S. enterica from an incubator. Hoping he hadn’t miscalculated their potency, he put them in solution. He filled an empty perfume atomiser (Dior’s _Poison_ , naturally) with water, then very carefully introduced the virulent cocktail: two drops. No, three. Just in case. 

He then sat down to a very large breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, beans and toast followed by half a grapefruit, tea, orange juice, and a giant slice of chocolate cake (from Mrs. Hudson). Before tucking in, he misted the entire meal liberally. 

“To love,” said Sherlock Holmes, then ate the whole thing, down to the last crumb of cake.

In the evening, he’d forced himself to eat again, this time chicken vindaloo with garlic naan. That meal got the special treatment, too. He’s really not feeling well by the next morning, but he suffers through a Full English from Speedy’s.

Now, he’s endured the whole ceremony with intense nausea and a cramping gut. Never one to miss an opportunity for drama, however, he’s holding back to the appropriate moment, which has now, blessedly arrived. The contents of his stomach are determined to make their escape. He really, really hopes that everything decides to come out his mouth and not the other end.

The vicar has posed his question and Sherlock hiccups a response, drawing Mary’s attention. She is instantly concerned.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock gives up fighting and lets the transport take over. He sways a bit on his feet. He hiccups again. He’s turned a particularly nasty shade of pale. 

“John, Sherlock’s ill,” says Mary, worried.

And then, with all the grace of a drunken teenager, Sherlock projectile vomits onto the altar. John doesn’t quite duck in time. It’s the stuff of horror films.

“Brilliant!” crows Archie.

Janine covers her own mouth and looks revolted. Several guests run for towels, buckets, anything. Sherlock is perhaps making a show of it, or perhaps he really is dying, but he retches loudly and can’t seem to stop. He’s now kneeling on the altar, making a horrible mess. If the painted cherubim could turn away, they would. 

John, who isn't afraid of blood or shit or puke, is in doctor mode. His eyes are wide but demeanor calm. “Sherlock! Jesus, Sherlock. Hang in there, OK? Just breathe. Breathe.”

Sherlock is looking at John with big, sad eyes. “I’m sorry,” he manages between bouts of vomiting, “I’m so sorry.” 

Too sick to care about the mess he’s made, Sherlock lies down on the floor. Perhaps poisoning himself was a bad idea after all. He’s sweating profusely and shaking, and he’s going to need the toilet soon. John kneels down, completely unconcerned with the state of his suit, and brushes Sherlock’s hair from his forehead. 

“Hang on in there,” he murmurs, his eyes kind. “We’ll get you sorted. It’s all right.” 

Mary takes a long look at the scene in front of her. Archie is narrating the whole thing like a football commentator, Molly has found some kitchen towels, Janine looks like she’s about to vomit herself, and someone has opened the door for some air and paper decorations and flowers are drifting aimlessly about in the breeze. Nobody is paying her the slightest attention. There is puke splattered on her wedding dress. John has completely forgotten about the ceremony, his focus solely on Sherlock. He’s lovingly cradling Sherlock’s head with one hand and holding a waste-paper basket with the other. 

“Upstaged at my own wedding,” she says out loud to no one in particular. “By Sherlock bloody Holmes.”


	4. It should have been me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: The Musical. A mash-up for the ages. Sherlock always did have a flair for drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks. This was written entirely by BettySwallocks, and it will be her very first published fanfiction, so give her a big round of applause for having the, uh, swallocks, to post it. She is hilarious.

SCENE THREE - SHERLOCK THE MUSICAL aka ‘It Should Have Been Rocky Sherlock on the Roof’

Sherlock’s parents, for the most part, are perfectly normal people. Both Holmes boys inherited their mother’s brains and their father’s charm. And although both Holmes brothers are often mistaken for landed gentry, the truth was that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes brought their boys up just like ordinary, loving parents do everywhere. They played with them often, taught them to love learning, to enjoy nature, to tell a good joke, to read, and to make tea. Daddy kicked footballs around and pretend-wrestled and told a horribly frightening ghost story. Mummy was brilliant but kind, made flapjacks and cheated at card games just to make sure the boys were paying attention. Mummy also had a horribly embarrassing love for classic musicals and a habit of banging out Rodgers & Hammerstein on the family piano whenever the mood took her..

And so it was that young Sherlock suffered through his mother’s afternoon serenades. It’s true that some childhood memories bury themselves straight into the Mind Palace’s hard drive, resisting all attempts at deletion. The best Sherlock has managed is to store the music file full of showtunes - from _Carousel_ to _West Side Story_ \- in a deep, lead-lined bunker of the Mind Palace’s security centre, secured with three ancient-looking padlocks.

Unfortunately for him, those padlocks just don’t want to stay shut when Sherlock’s inebriated. There’s a reason he doesn’t often get pissed. A few days after his disastrous stag night, with the wedding looming ahead of him, he stole a couple of bottles of 1990 Chateau Latour from Mycroft’s cellar. What his brain did with his misery was rather colourful.

PROLOGUE: Ext. pre-dawn. The roof, St Bartholomew’s Hospital.

The screen is almost entirely dark: the sun has not yet risen. We hear the plaintive sound of violin music, vaguely eastern European in character: definitely not English, but part of the multicultural soundscape nevertheless. As the day slowly dawns, the camera pans to the lone musician, dressed in simple peasant attire, eyes closed in rapture, teetering on the very edge of the hospital roof.

”A fiddler on the roof”, he says to us, gently plucking at the strings. ”Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? You might ask, ‘if it's so dangerous there, how does he stay up?’ Well, I’ll tell you. Because of John Watson. He’s how I keep my balance. With John Watson, I can hold myself together…”

The music swells as the sun comes up. We see a montage of classic John and Sherlock moments: John seeing 221B’s kitchen for the first time; John shooting the cabbie; John and Sherlock laughing in a cab; John at Baskerville; John and Sherlock in handcuffs; John at Sherlock’s grave; John punching Sherlock in the restaurant; John forgiving Sherlock over the tube train bomb; the stag night .

“...So I won’t ever let anyone take him away from me. There will be no Watson and Morstan. It’s Watson and Holmes, Holmes and Watson. It’s…Tradition.”

The music swells as we slowly zoom out, away from the fiddler, then up into the clouds over London, until he is just a tiny speck on the horizon, bowing away manically.

 

SCENE ONE: Ext. The church. 3pm.

We are in a gorgeous, chocolate-box of a village. The exact location is irrelevant, although it is meant to be St. Mary Magdalene’s, a 15th century chapel in rural Somewhereshire. It’s a beautiful day. The gardens are lush and verdant, ivy clings to weathered stone walls, and the lilacs are in full bloom. It’s a perfect day for a wedding, and, indeed, a wedding is about to take place inside. 

But hang on a moment. Aren’t those lilacs a little too, well, _lilac_ , the village just too perfect, and those clouds a little too fluffy? On closer inspection, they could all be...fake. Like you might find on a film set, perhaps. Or painted into scenery at the theatre.

Drums play softly, but persistently, as the guests file in, chattering excitedly. Overdressed females in flowery frocks and fascinators, men uncomfortable in collars and ties. Everyone in shades of lemon: it makes most of the women look bilious. Which surely wouldn’t have been the bride’s intention. Mary’s a lovely person, who sees the best in everyone. Isn’t she.

SCENE TWO: Int. 3.15pm. The church.

Inside the tastefully decorated chapel (more lemon and lilac), the bride and groom stand at the altar, hands clasped. The vicar--a stern, elderly bear of a man who must be a foot taller than John--gestures none too subtly at his watch and begins to tap his foot, adding a steely, insistent touch to the increasingly ominous sound of drums. To the right of the bride stands an attractive young woman with dark hair. She is looking at the bride and sniffing back happy tears. She is Janine, the chief bridesmaid.

The groom’s mouth is smiling, but his eyes are darting everywhere, like he’s lost something he badly needs, or maybe like he isn’t sure exactly why he’s where he is, and has to keep checking. He wears a smart grey morning suit,complete with tails. Somehow, he looks more radiant than his intended, but that may just be a trick of the light. He is John Watson. 

The bride is the same height as the man whose hands she’s clasping forcefully, little pink nails digging in firmly, like the claws of a garden mole. Her milk-white lace dress is beautiful, her blonde hair scraped back ruthlessly, then styled with rosebuds, one of which has been dislodged. It doesn’t really soften the look anyway: there is still something scary about her. Something of the night. She is determined, driven. In the sunlight that seeps through the ancient stained glass window, you could almost say...demented. She is, of course, the formidable Mary Morstan: she always gets what she wants, and today, she wants to be Mrs Watson. She briefly turns her back to John so that Janine can punish the flower back into line.

The chapel is not entirely full of guests, but John can see some of his favourite people have escaped London and are now moving in time to the beat: Lestrade, Molly, Major Sholto, Angelo, Mrs Hudson, Mr Chatterjee. As he stares, open-mouthed, they each jump left, then right, then do some more moves in perfect sync. John nudges Mary, but by the time she looks over, they’re standing still again. 

It takes John a few seconds to clock that someone Very Important is still missing. 

“Psssst,” hisses Mary, “we can’t wait any longer. We’ll just have to start without him.”

“But the rings,” replies John. “Sherlock’s got them.”

“Jilted by your best man?” smiles the vicar, in a voice that should rumble like thunder, but in fact is camper than Christmas. “Don’t worry, loves. I’ve got spares. When he finally gets here, you can swap them for the real ones. OK?”

John nods and sighs with something less than the expected enthusiasm, but Mary looks smug. Nothing’s going to spoil her perfect day. Especially not the absence of John’s eccentric twerp of a best friend. (Such a shame the alarm clock on his phone is faulty. Anyone would think it had been tampered with.)

“OK, then,” John finally says, “let’s do it.” 

“And a...one...,” intones the priest. ‘And a two…. And a one, two, three four…”

Organ music starts up. It’s meant to be the Wedding March, but combined with the persistent, electronic percussion, it’s more like the death rattle of a Victorian consumptive. Mary’s eyes shoot upward, to the organ loft, where the musician’s diminutive figure is perched. 

“Who the fuck organised that brat to do music?” seethes Mary quietly, knowing that to evict dear little Archie from his musical eyrie would be the ultimate in Bridezilla behaviour and therefore endear her to no-one. “That wasn’t on the spreadsheet I signed off. Wait til we see Sherlock. I’ll bloody deck him.” 

Just then, the ceremony begins, the priest’s singsong fluting underscored by the relentless wheeze of the organ and the tapping of the invisible, yet insistent, drum machine. It lulls John into a trance. Until the congregation repeat their dance move. 

A jump to the left, a step to their right. Hands on hips. “Fucking hell,” says John, horrified. _Rocky_ Horrified, even. “That was a pelvic thrust, Mary. Mrs Hudson just did a _pelvic thrust_! With her hip! Well, I don’t mean with her hip, I mean with her pelvis...you know what I mean. But...bloody hell. They did. _The Time Warp._ ”

John, hemmed in between Mary and the vicar, is now seriously regretting the herbal soother he’d borrowed from Mrs Hudson to settle his pre-wedding jitters. “She must have put bloody skunk in it, or magic mushrooms,” he mutters to himself. 

Suddenly, an image of Sherlock, performing “Sweet Transvestite”, leaps into John’s addled brain, towering over him, a panther stalking a baby rabbit, Belstaff hanging seductively open to reveal long, long legs in black stockings, pouty oh-so-kissable mouth outlined in scarlet lipstick, elegant waist, snake hips in leather briefs, and high, high heels. 

 

_So tall, so...dominating. Dangerous. Sherlock might try and crush him between those powerful, yet slender thighs. Immobilise him with a press of those enormous hands. John would fight back, of course. He’d give it nearly all he’d got. But eventually he’d let Sherlock win. Once they were good and sweaty. He’d pretend to submit. Then he’d flip Sherlock over and cop a good feel inside those tight knickers. He could keep the suspenders on..._

John shakes his head, as if to physically dislodge the image of himself and Sherlock N Furter squirming, snogging and groping their way all over the sofa in 221B. Fantasy John and Fantasy Sherlock seem to know exactly what to do to each other and they’re loving it. 

He’s appalled at himself. Where did this fantasy come from--and why was it so amazingly detailed? It’s so, so wrong. He’s (a) straight; and (b) about to get married to the woman he loves, for goodness sake! 

_But Oh God. Fantasy Sherlock won’t get out of his head. It’s so, so….sexy!_

There is a screech, like the needle of an old-fashioned record-player being forcibly removed from an LP. Then absolute silence, save for John’s laboured breathing. John remains shocked, even as the image of leather-corseted, suspender-belted Sherlock recedes, hips swaying enticingly, and blowing him a flirty kiss. John lifts a couple of fingers away from Mary’s grasp, as if to wave goodbye, then reacts as she scratches them back into her vice-like grip. 

“Ouch!” he yelps.

There is a roll of drums. Now the priest has acquired a shiny retro microphone, a spotlight, a cheesy pink dog collar emblazoned with Swarovski crystals reading “WWJD”, and a terrible cod-American drawl. “OK everyone, listen up. If there is anyone present who objects to the joining of these two people in holy matrimony, may they now be heard.”

Everyone freezes. 

For a long, long moment, all that can be heard is the ticking of the vicar’s watch, then the clomp-clomp-clomp of the drum machine cranking back up. But hang on. Is it...could it be... the sound of expensively shod footsteps on a well-tended asphalt path? It could.

“I don’t know why they always ask that at weddings,” mutters Mrs Hudson to Angelo. “No-one ever says anyth…”

The thick, oak door to the chapel swings open so violently that everyone in the pews jumps six inches.

And in strolls Sherlock, all charisma and cheekbones, sadly not clad in leather and suspenders, but still sex on legs in his morning suit, a longer, tighter version of John’s. He stands at the back of the church, glances contemptuously at the congregation, the bridesmaid, the bride, the vicar, and lastly (considerably less contemptuously) the groom, and says, quietly, “Me. I object.”

“Pardon?” splutters the vicar, fake accent abandoned, microphone drooping in his hand like a limp, greasy penis. He is clearly unsure what to do next, and raises his eyes heavenward, as if seeking divine inspiration, or perhaps willing Archie to resume the music and give people a distraction. 

“I do not like to repeat myself,” says Sherlock, bowling his top hat straight up to Archie in the organ loft, and stalking up the aisle like Naomi Campbell for Vivienne Westwood (before the fall, of course), “but in this highly unusual instance, I will make an exception….”

Sherlock discards his tie, flinging it towards Mrs Hudson with a flourish.

“Not your housekeeper, dear”, she responds, but she is winking.

Sherlock ruffles his hair free of its expensively-pomaded prison and drapes himself dramatically over the altar. 

“I. Object.”

There is, if anything, an even more stunned silence.

“And, what, precisely, is the reason for your objection?” offers the priest, voice uncertain and a little squeaky--he’s not sure this was even in the script.

“ _It should have been me_. That is my objection,” explains Sherlock, gesturing towards the pews. “Gordon Lestrade, in the front row, is from the police, and I am telling him, as I am, indeed, telling you all. That woman, over there…” and he points dramatically at Mary, “is a liar and a thief.”

There is a collective gasp from the congregation, then a muttered conversation between the bride and her chief bridesmaid, in which the phrases “narcissist”; and “attention-seeking twat” can be heard. The groom, meanwhile, says not a word and moves not an inch. 

“John!” shouts Mary, face screwed up into an angry grimace, “Don’t just stand there like a stunned mullet! Do something!”

John’s face is bathed in soft light as he slowly lifts his gaze, up from the simple oak floorboards painted to look like ancient flagstone, up past his furious fiancee to the confused clergyman, and finally, up to the handsome, familiar face of his ex-flatmate. He swallows, but still says nothing. His navy blue eyes are huge, a little boy lost on this big, grown-up day. Perhaps he is in shock. Or imagining Sherlock, dressed as Frank N Furter, slowly removing a pair of stockings.

Mary is not in shock. She is incandescent with rage. “John!” she yells, “For goodness sake! What does he mean, it should have been him? Are you going to stand there and let this...this...socially retarded drama queen ruin my wedding? He should have done us all a favour and bloody well stayed dead properly when he killed himself!”

“Is that what you really think, Mary?” Sherlock says. Mary nods, closes her fists, and works the glint back into her eyes. Like a toddler jealous of her newer, cuter sibling, she’ll stop at nothing, murder included, to get revenge. She’s gearing up for another round of insults when the music starts again, a little bit faster, but if anything, even more persistent. 

The congregation rises as one, and Sherlock clicks his fingers. Dark-lensed glasses, as might be supplied at a 3D cinema screening, appear like magic on everyone’s faces.

Then Sherlock takes aim with his extraordinary eyes--nearly turquoise in the spotlight--and fixes Mary with a stare that says everything. Literally. Words, neatly formed in helvetica 32-point, cloud around her like literary confetti, a bridal shower of devastating truth: “marrying for money”; “serial cheater”; “uses supermarket bread mix;” “tax evader”; and “gambling debts”; mingle with “heartbreaker”; “Daily Mail reader”; and--most devastating of all-- “orgasm faker”.

John bristles. “M-M-Mary?” he stutters. “Surely not...every time?”

Mary cannot help but glance over to her chief bridesmaid. Janine’s “tears of joy” take on a whole new meaning as Sherlock’s final selection of letters flutter around John’s now-disgraced bride like butterflies flitting through weedkiller: “Closet Lesbian.”

“What does it say, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks Molly, “those silly specs don’t fit over my bifocals.”

“Sherlock thinks Mary really loves Janine, and is only marrying John to take advantage of his credit rating,” Molly replies earnestly.

“I knew there was something a bit off about that girl,” Mrs Hudson insists. “She’s got hair like a nightclub bouncer.”

Mrs Hudson and Molly shake hands, then get the other members of the congregation to do the same. Mr Chatterjee produces a bottle of Bollinger from under his pew, Major Sholto slashes away the cork with a swish of his regimental sword; Mrs Hudson’s voluminous handbag disgorges an ice-bucket; Lestrade hands out glasses; Angelo pours; and Molly shares out a family-sized packet of Quavers. Soon the guests are dancing and chatting like the reception has already started, leaving the wedding party to sort themselves out centre stage.

Mary’s face has turned almost the same unflattering shade of purple as the bridesmaids’ frocks. And then she smiles sweetly. “No, John, of course I didn’t fake it. Not every single time, no….and Janine and I really are just good friends, honest...’’ 

Suddenly there is the sound of a thunderclap, followed by a five-harp glissando and angelic harmonies. Golden letters formed of ancient-looking script appear magically above the altar, supported by cherubim.

“L I A R.”

John stands as if ready for battle, eyes on his bride, but body angling itself ever forward, towards his best man.

John clears his throat, lets go of Mary’s right hand as Sherlock extends his left.

John makes as if to go to Sherlock, but Mary pulls him back so forcefully that his dodgy shoulder is nearly yanked out of its socket.

“But John, you have to marry me,” she splutters crocodile-tearfully into the vicar’s microphone, “I...I’m rubbish with money. I need a chance to start again, new name, new life, new credit history. It was worth faking a few climaxes, and pretending to be friends with...him, when I knew there was an end in sight. And Sherlock was too besotted with you being back in his life again to get around to deducing my money problems.”

John looks at Sherlock, who nods sadly. 

“There is always something,” he sighs. “So you were going to marry me not because you loved me, but because I could help you with your terrible finances?”

Mary starts to lie, but knows the letters will spell out the truth if she doesn’t.

“No...well...OK, yes,” she admits. “It was obvious from the start that you loved Sherlock, dead or alive. You didn’t admit it to yourself. I knew you’d never have looked twice at me if he’d still been around. But you thought he was dead, and there I was. Right place, right time. I did like you, I still do. And then…”

“You met Janine,” Sherlock supplies, “and it was love at first sight. How did you meet? Hmm. You’d been with John for what, six months by then, and he’d just proposed…” He narrows his eyes. “Janine had come into the surgery with a trivial complaint of some kind...something you fixed in your sexual health clinic...some sort of minor gynaecological trouble…?” He wrinkles his forehead thoughtfully. “Female transport isn’t really my area…”

“You can say that again,” sneers Mary, grabbing John slightly less tightly.

“...thrush?” continues Sherlock, his voice (unfortunately for Janine) carrying perfectly over the noise of the guests’ inebriated chatter, “vaginal warts? Chlamydia? Herpes...?”

John looks around at the disaster that used to be his wedding. Everyone seems to have forgotten him. Mary has let him go completely and is now firmly focused on the embarrassed Janine, as she makes her way out of the church pursued by the sound of Sherlock’s increasingly intimate deductions. ”..vaginismus? Piles…? Pubic lice?” 

Mary pauses a moment, then seems to come to a decision. She looks over at John, shrugs her shoulders, and follows her best friend out of the church door.

Sherlock is being hugged by Mrs Hudson and Molly, neither of whom cared much for Mary, mostly because she wasn’t Sherlock. The remaining guests have their backs turned to the altar, Archie’s attempting a drum’n’bass version of the Wedding March on the organ, and the vicar’s trying to send a live feed to Youtube. Luckily, a higher power--possibly Mycroft, or even the vicar’s big boss Above, has blocked mobile communications for the entire village. 

Slowly, the light in the church fades until we see nobody but the former bridegroom, who cuts a small, forlorn figure as he walks along the aisle, towards the door, ignored by all. 

But now Sherlock has spotted John, deduced his imminent departure and leapt over the last pews to gather him into his arms. John shrugs him off, and Sherlock returns to the altar, and sinks to his knees, defeated.

“John, don’t go...please don’t leave. I love you.”

“No, you don’t, Sherlock,” says John, sadly. “You love making a scene. You love attention. You love an audience. And you’ve certainly got one today. But I can’t watch any more. Maybe Mary wasn’t right for me after all, and perhaps she never was: but just now, all I want is some air.’

John pauses, hand on the latch. ‘And besides.’ he states emphatically, ‘I’m. Not. Gay…”

There is a flash of lightning and a rumble of heavenly thunder. 

Rainbow-coloured script forms above both their heads. Lots of it.

“Divine patience is finite,” everyone reads laboriously. “Sherlock Loves You. You Love Him. Admit it, Get Married & Stop Wasting the Rev’s Time--He’s Got a Christening at 4pm.”

There is a chorus of “Amen” from the wedding guests. The letters ‘S’, ‘H’, ‘J’ and ‘W’ glow most of all, then form themselves into a heart-shape, before slowly disappearing.

“Is church always this much fun?” asks Mr Chatterjee, whose previous exposures to Christianity were limited to a rather dull Sunday service and an even duller funeral.

John walks to the altar, just as Mary did, only half an hour before. Sherlock is waiting, just as he was, head bowed, as if in prayer.

“John, honestly, it’s true,” insists Sherlock, clasping John’s hands in his. “You know how I hate repeating myself. But I do. Love you. Will you say you love me, too?”

John pauses. He looks at Sherlock, then at the congregation, who all seem to be on one bated breath. 

“Do I love him? Do I love him?” sings John, in a voice that’s pure musical theatre. 

Classic images of Sherlock and John appear above the altar: John handing Sherlock his phone the very first time they met (the congregation says “aah”); John snatching cigarettes away from Sherlock (they cheer); John confronting Moriarty at the pool (a chorus of “boo”); John staring up at Sherlock on the roof just before he jumps (a few sobs); John at Sherlock’s grave, trying to be brave (everyone cries).

“There’ve been five long years I've known this man/Killed for him, grieved for him/For nearly five years my life’s been his/If that's not love, what is?”

Sherlock looks up. “Then...you _do_ love me?”

John continues. “For the first two years I’ve made your tea/watched your back, cleaned the fridge. Then you died and a bit of me did too/After nearly five years, it’s still hard to admit...but…” John says the next three words so quietly, Sherlock isn’t sure he’s heard correctly. “I love you…”

John smiles, and locks his big blue eyes on Sherlock’s. “Yes, Sherlock. I’ve been in denial. I’ve wanted to be with you from the first moment we met.”

Sherlock persists. “Say it again, John. Do you love me?”

“Yes,” comes the reply. “Yes, Sherlock. I suppose... I do.”

Archie cheers and launches straight back into the Wedding March (traditional version). Sherlock produces the proper rings, slips one on the fourth finger of his left hand and the other on John’s, then nods to the vicar.

“Oh!” he trills, all aflutter. “Oh? Well yes--it would appear you are now married? But it won’t really count. I mean, it should, of course it should...but the boss says no.”

“But the rainbow letters!’ says Sherlock, ‘surely they came from a higher authority than the, er...the..King of Vicars.”

John bursts out laughing. “Only you could delete the Archbishop of Canterbury!”

Just then the door to the church opens yet again, and in taps Mycroft, like a slightly less dapper Fred Astaire, should Fred Astaire ever be reincarnated as the British Government. He twirls the umbrella expertly, then patters up the aisle, shuffling between pews until he reaches the priest. He beckons with one elegant fingernail, produces an official-looking notebook, and they begin a whispered conversation.

Whilst Mycroft and the vicar retrospectively amend the Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Act 2013, to remove the right of churches to opt out of conducting wedding ceremonies, Sherlock turns to John, and whispers, “This is boring. And it’s a family musical. But as soon as this wedding scene is over, I will feel the urge to return to Baker Street...and begin the traditional sex holiday.”

John considers. He thinks of all the times Sherlock’s forgotten all about him, and only remembered again when he needs something. Tea, for example. Or an urgent email that needs sending. Is their love life going to be similar? He imagines Sherlock distracting himself, mid kiss, because he wants John to fetch the laptop. Or even worse, Sherlock getting disgruntled when John insists he can’t send texts whilst having sex. Or talk to Lestrade.

“Can you promise me that your marriage to the Work has irretrievably broken down and that you’ve come to an agreement about custody of the Cases?” he challenges.

Sherlock thinks it through. 

‘Yes, John, I promise. I still love the Work, but The Cases will stay in the Mind Palace during moments of intimacy. From now on, John Watson, you will always come first.’

John smiles. “I might not always want to come first, Sherlock. It depends what we’re doing with each other. But I promise to always come when convenient.’

And Sherlock smiles back. “And if it’s inconvenient,” he says with a naughty smile, “you’ll come anyway.”

“Oh, God yes.” John licks his lips and says seductively, “You know, I’ve always wanted….”

But we will never know what John has always wanted to do, because the violin has reprised, and the credits are rolling….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have a tumblr. Not much is on there, but I will try to post writing updates. Make sure to subscribe to the story so you get update notifications!


	5. David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dismantling a wedding, Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle style.

There’s a dreadful television show on Channel 5 -- Sherlock does not know what it’s called but there’s hair pulling and name calling -- that features people with few brains and even less class. More than half the time the women claiming ignorance of the identity of their baby’s daddy know exactly who he is, but, he suspects, are willing to feign ignorance for five minutes of fame: sometimes they really are clueless as to what man’s DNA has contributed to her reproduction. Sherlock likes these cases. He can always deduce the father. 

Sherlock does know a thing or two about sex. He can always tell who is sleeping with who, or, in this case, who _had_. The day he met David, Sherlock had worked out that he and Mary engaged in intercourse more than once, but that it had meant something much more to him than it had to her. He frightened David off and made a point _not_ to ever mention it to John.

Later that night, guest list and seating arrangements set, Sherlock took a bath, where he sulked and tried not to think about his impending misery. He closed his eyes and plotted. The water was cold by the time he opened his eyes.

Late spring. A church. The exact location of the church is irrelevant, although it is the chapel of St. Mary Magdelene’s in Bristol. It’s a beautiful day. The gardens are lush and verdant, ivy clings to weathered stone walls, and the lilacs are in full bloom. It’s a perfect day for a wedding, and, indeed, a wedding is taking place inside. 

Inside the chapel, a man and a woman stand at the altar, their hands clasped. The man is smiling. He is wearing a smart grey suit with tails. Somehow, he looks more radiant than the bride, but that may be a trick of the lighting. He is John Watson. The woman is just as short as the man whose hands she’s clasping. Her lace dress is beautiful, her blonde hair artistically styled with flowers. A smile plays on her lips, coquettish thing. She is Mary Morstan. The chapel is not entirely full of guests, but there are a number of people gathered to see this couple wed. It is a joyful occasion for everyone. 

Everyone, that is, except the best man, who stands stiffly, to the left of the groom. He wears an expression similar to one someone might have while cleaning a long-neglected public toilet. It’s clear he’s only fulfilling his role as best man out of obligation. 

Next to Sherlock Holmes is Archie, aged 8, who looks about as interested in the proceedings as Sherlock does.

To the right of the bride stands an attractive young woman with dark hair. She is sniffing back happy tears. She is Janine. Faces of friends smile from the audience: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, first name unimportant. 

The bride and groom are preparing to say their vows, and the vicar is raising his hands to conduct one of the traditional elements of a wedding.

“And now, if there is anyone present who objects to the joining of these two people in holy matrimony, may they now be heard.”

“Mary!”

Sherlock’s head whips toward the audience. _David._. Well, well, well. He had hoped for such a thing to happen, but he honestly thought David wouldn’t have the balls for such a display. Mrs. Hudson must have been especially convincing.

One night when Sherlock had been particularly awful, Mrs. Hudson came up with tea and biscuits to try to appease the angry god of the violin. Instead of consoling him, however, she made things much worse by explaining to Sherlock how her wedding to Mr. Hudson would have never happened if she had the courage to make her feelings known to a young man named Henry who went on to marry one of her close friends. She had a habit of doing things like that -- going on about emotional _things_ when Sherlock was feeling raw and unsettled. She ended the story nearly weeping into her tea. Apparently Henry died of stomach cancer a few years later, oblivious to the woman who had loved him so dearly. It made Sherlock feel worse than ever.

Later that week, he’d interviewed the entire guest list of John’s wedding. Mrs. Hudson graciously set up tea and biscuits in her front room which functioned as a reception area for Sherlock’s guest screening experiment (a little obfuscation was necessary so that Mrs. Hudson thought John was both aware of and perfectly fine with it. Bless her.). 

Sherlock had decided the first 42 guests were horribly boring specimens of homo sapiens until he met David. Ah, David, frequent commenter on Mary’s Facebook page. Sender of random texts. Shoulder to cry on. Slight upward tilt of his eyebrows whenever Mary’s name was mentioned but a downward cast to his eyes at John’s name. Nervous. Ex-boyfriend then. Still had feelings for Mary. Utterly spineless.

Sherlock dismissed David with a diabolical smile. “Ask Mrs. Hudson about Henry on your way out!” he had shouted after him. 

It appears David has grown a spine, and maybe a pair of bollocks as well, for now he stands, desperate.

Mary heaves a heavy sigh. “Oh, please not now,” she says under her breath. 

“Stop! Stop the wedding!”

The vicar looks confused. Archie makes an exclamation of surprise. Janine’s eyes widen.

John’s mouth is open in complete indignation. He looks to Sherlock, as if he should have been warned of this. Sherlock only shrugs.

David is struggling out of the pew and heading toward the altar. “You can’t marry him,” he pleads. “Please, Mary. Just let me speak.”

John is quickly going into battle mode. Sherlock loves to watch the stages of John’s Righteous Anger. He’s bypassed stage one completely (breathing through his nose) and moved right on to stage two (the eyes of murder). “Yes, please,” he says. “If you’re going to interrupt my wedding you’d better have a damn good reason and I certainly want to hear it.”

“It’s over, David,” pleads Mary, who is now wringing her hands now that John has dropped them. 

“No, Mary, just….” David is now acutely aware that everyone in the audience is staring him down. He swallows and wipes sweat from his brow. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

“You may not,” replies John. David is taller than John, but John’s presence, notes Sherlock, is expanding to fill the entire church. Not too long ago, the wrath of John was turned on him. The man can convey so much in a twitch of lips and clench of jaw. 

David steels himself and gets on with it. 

“Mary Morstan. I love you. I have always loved you.”

“David, please…”

“And I really think you should do a pregnancy test.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. So do John’s. So do everyone’s in the audience. Mary turns white, then blushes furiously. 

“Oh shit,” says Archie’s mother under her breath, before quickly dragging the boy out, much to his dislike.

Sherlock smirks as John enters the next stage of RA: the nose pinch, which he holds only briefly before flexing his hand. “Mary,” he says, quietly, “I think you’d better say something. Right now. Because this man is making implications that I really, really don’t like.”

Mary says nothing. David continues, more quietly, addressing Mary. Sherlock can tell that David loves her, he really does.

“I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I couldn’t, and I remember so much about you, and I’m pretty sure the last time we were together you might have been...and, oh God, Mary, the condom broke and I didn’t tell you, I couldn’t tell you, and…I know you still love me, you do, I know you do...” He trails off and stares at the floor.

Sherlock’s calculating. Yes, he does know Mary’s cycle. It’s important to know things like that. It’s also important to note that she came off the pill, citing headaches, nearly four months ago. Yes. Yes! The signs are all there. He’s ticking boxes in his head. Oh, this is too good.

There is one awful moment where the church is deadly quiet. Molly holds her hand over her mouth. Lestrade is eyeing John dubiously. It’s Mrs. Hudson who moves, slowly, from the front pew where she’s sitting as John’s honorary mother. She spends a moment regarding the young man who interrupted before she turns her attention to Mary. She spares a glance at Sherlock, who conveys with a small look that yes, yes indeed, Ms. Morstan did have a final goodbye - a mercy fuck, really - with David, and that yes, indeed, she’s with child, and that John may or may not be the father. “How dare you. Both of you,” she whispers with disgust, before turning and making her way down the aisle toward the door. 

Many members of the audience do the same; slowly, the church empties as the sad little drama continues up front. The bridesmaids congregate at the side of the church where Janine is trying to figure out what to do.

Sherlock watches John carefully. 

“Well,” says John, too loudly. “Are you going to deny this? Tell me you’re denying it. Mary? Mary?”

Mary, who has been staring at the floor, looks up at John with tears in her big blue eyes. Sherlock deduces like mad. What’s off? What’s off? Yes, she has secrets. Big secrets. But a pregnancy, and an affair? How could he have missed it? _Easily,_ he says to himself. _You’ve been too distracted with the wedding, of losing your friend, sentiment and emotion clouding your judgement. You wanted to like her,_ he tells himself. _You wanted John to be happy._

“I love you both,” she finally whispers. 

“Both.” John says the word with contempt. “You love us...both.”

“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Mary’s shouts. “Loving two people?” Tears fall down her cheeks. “You, of all people should know!” She looks at Sherlock pointedly. His stomach is immediately in knots. This has suddenly taken an incredibly awkward turn. “I’ve always had to share you!,” she continues. “Always! You were in love with a ghost when I met you. And you still are.”

Those left in the congregation are shifting uncomfortably, not knowing how to escape from this spectacle. 

John’s shoulders droop. He doesn’t deny it. “When was it?” he finally asks. “You told me that you two had ‘casually dated.’ That was clearly a lie. So. When was it? The last time?”

Mary says nothing.

John turns to David and shouts, “When?” His voice is harsh and echoes throughout the chapel.

“Two months ago.”

“Hmmm. ‘The case of the Angry Clown’,” supplies Sherlock. Mary, John, and David all turn to him, incredulous. “Sorry,” he shrugs.

John turns back to Mary. “Two months. Jesus.” He runs a hand through his hair and over his face. “Are you...late?”

Her face speaks volumes.

“Oh God. Oh Jesus.” 

John’s world is imploding. Sherlock’s watched it before. It isn’t pleasant. As much as he doesn’t want to lose the love of his life, this is simply awful. 

“I’m so sorry, John,” David is saying. “I just couldn’t let you marry him if--” 

He doesn’t get to finish. John lashes out, a sharp left hook landing neatly across David’s nose, which promptly erupts with blood. The punch to the face is followed by a second to the stomach, and then Lestrade is there, grabbing at David, who manages to throw a punch of retaliation himself. 

Sherlock springs into action, grabbing John by the shoulders and pulling him away. “Leave it, John,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” yells John, shrugging off Sherlock’s hands. The vicar’s eyebrows nearly march off his face. “You _lied_ to me, Mary,” continues John, his voice a broken thing that echoes off the marble. “I’m surrounded by liars!”

“Maybe you should stop lying to yourself,” Mary manages.

John takes stock of the ruin of his wedding before marching directly out via the side entrance and into the gardens beyond. 

Sherlock observes Mary, who is now sitting on the step of the altar, her face in her hands. He cannot decide if she feels guilty for her actions or if she is just upset about getting caught. She’s still hiding something, though Sherlock cannot pinpoint what it is. Lestrade sends David packing and Molly and her date have taken to arguing. A few stragglers are hanging about, probably wondering if there will still be cake (it’s vanilla cream with raspberry filling and is utterly delicious).

The whole wedding has disintegrated. It’s a spectacular scandal. The kind of thing that usually makes Sherlock look down his nose at the stupidity of sentiment. If it were happening to anyone else, he’d be rolling his eyes or laughing.

But Sherlock feels odd. Something troubles him. Regret? Sympathy? Jealousy? Relief? He cannot quite pinpoint it. It is Not Good.

As best man, he supposes it’s his job to stay and sort it out and pick up the pieces. But the only pieces that matter are those that make up John, so he heads out the same way. 

He finds John on a stone bench in the garden, so he sits, too. They sit, and they sit, and they sit, and Sherlock will hold the pieces until -- or if -- John wants to put them back together.


	6. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock interrupts the wedding the way we wanted him to - a full confession at the right moment.

THE CONFESSION

Sherlock is not afraid of many things. He is not troubled by blood or guts, does not believe in anything supernatural, embraces death as a natural consequence of life, can suffer pain. (He’s not a big fan of heights any more, however.) Besides being called stupid, reckless, and careless, people have also called him brave. 

Sherlock hates failure but doesn’t fear it. What he does fear is losing John Watson. He _fears_ it, the way some people fear getting cancer or having their children abducted. 

He cannot decide what is the braver thing to do: interrupt John’s wedding or let the man marry Mary Morstan. It’s a problem a whole box of nicotine patches could not illuminate.

The night before John marries Mary, Sherlock sits in Regent’s park, smoking cigarettes and brooding.

Late spring. A church. The exact location of the church is irrelevant, although it is the chapel of St. Mary Magdelene’s in Bristol. It’s pissing down. The gardens are dripping, sodden ivy clings to weathered stone walls, and the lilacs are bowing their wet heads. It’s a lousy day for a wedding, but a wedding is taking place inside, where the people -- most of them at any rate -- are dry and warm and generally happy.

Inside the chapel, a man and a woman stand at the altar, their hands clasped. The man is smiling. He is wearing a smart grey suit with tails. Somehow, he looks more radiant than the bride, but that may be a trick of the lighting. He is John Watson. The woman is just as short as the man whose hands she’s clasping. Her lace dress is beautiful, her blonde hair artistically styled with flowers. She is Mary Morstan. The chapel is not entirely full of guests, but there are a number of people gathered to see this couple wed. It is a joyful occasion for everyone. 

Everyone, that is, except the best man, who stands to the left of the groom. He’s been worrying his lower lip throughout most of the ceremony, and the closer the couple gets to the vows, the more his expression changes from discomfort to anguish. It looks like he’s swallowing glass.

To the right of the bride stands an attractive young woman with dark hair. She is sniffing back happy tears. She is Janine. Faces of friends smile from the audience: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, first name unimportant. 

The bride and groom are preparing to say their vows, and the vicar is raising his hands to conduct one of the traditional elements of a wedding.

“And now, if there is anyone present who objects to the joining of these two people in holy matrimony, may they now be heard.”

The bride and groom smile at one another. John waggles his eyebrows. Mary laughs. The audience giggles a little bit. No one ever says anything.

But.

Sherlock clears his throat, speaks. “John.”

John laughs nervously and speaks over his shoulder to his friend behind him. “Not now, Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Unless someone is in grave danger, it’s not the right time.” His voice is still light. Sherlock does shit like this. It’s not entirely unexpected.

“John, I object.”

John takes a long-suffering deep breath, looks down to his hand, joined with Mary’s. 

“I object,” says Sherlock, a bit louder. The audience is absolutely silent. 

“Sherlock, I swear...”

“I object to your marriage!” There. It’s out. Sherlock is looking at the back of John’s head. His eyes are shining and he stands there without his usual haughty demeanor, as if he’s been stripped, peeled like a lobster, the shell torn away to reveal vulnerable flesh.

He meets Mary’s eyes, which are now filled with fear. “John,” she cautions, her eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. _You had your opportunity_ she’s saying. _And you lost it. He’s mine now._

 _I cannot help it_ , he’s saying back. _I’m sorry_.

John keeps his back to his best friend and his eyes down. He’s still holding Mary’s hands, but he’s silent.

“I only have a few moments,” begins Sherlock, “before someone does the ‘right’ thing and forces me away, but I swear, John, in front of our friends, that I do object to your marriage. I object to your domestication, what will likely be the suffocation of your spirit, and your submission to the status quo. Your mind will grow stagnant and your heart will ache for the thrill of the chase. You will lay awake at night wishing we were running through dark alleys. You will long for _more_. Soon your body will lose its combat-readiness, turn flabby and be fit for nothing but lawn-mowing, IKEA, and missionary position sex.” 

The vicar looks astounded. Several members of the congregation -- a few of Mary’s friends, perhaps -- make noises of displeasure. Sherlock ignores them. 

“John, I cannot condone this marriage because it will take you away from me, a thought I find absolutely intolerable. Since I have returned from our time apart, I have realised that you are truly the only thing of value in my life. You have taught me lessons where others have failed. Because of you, I have learned patience. Kindness. Friendship. Loyalty. Honesty.”

This last word he chokes on a bit. They’ve lied to themselves for so long. No more untruths. Sherlock turns now to John, who stands still as a statue. He has dropped Mary’s hands and his left hand is trembling. HIs eyes are shut. 

“Stop this, Sherlock,” John whispers. “Just stop it. This is _my wedding_.”

The venom in John’s voice is nearly enough to derail him, but Sherlock presses on. So far, he’s ignored the audience, purposefully speaking to the air in front of him, the stones on the floor, the great empty space above the pulpit. Now, he takes a shaky breath and looks out, seeing the faces of his “friends” -- Molly, who is covering her mouth with her hand. Lestrade, who is leaning forward, eyebrows drawn together, concerned. Mrs. Hudson, worrying the lipstick off her lower lip with her teeth, her eyes hopeful.

“Right now John is thinking that I’m being incredibly selfish,” Sherlock says to them.

John opens his mouth, but Sherlock continues.

“After all, it was I who left him first. To his credit, he’s tried to tell me that things won’t change much, that I’ve got nothing to worry about. John, you think that you’ll still pick up one of my texts and be there right away. That you’ll still be in and out of 221B so often, I won’t hardly notice that you’ve moved out. 

“The thing is, we all know that isn’t really true. Yes, you’ll be available just like you always were...for a few weeks. And then it’ll be, ‘no, sorry, I can’t meet on Wednesdays because that’s the night we go to the cinema’. And Mondays will be no good because it’s the beginning of the working week. Sundays you’ll be unavailable all day at bloody John Lewis buying home furnishings, or the garden centre choosing shrubs and dwarf apple trees. And not Fridays or Saturdays because Mary likes us to ‘do things’ together..’, or worse, spend time with other couples, nice safe smug married couples, all sitting around someone’s lovely dining table talking about house prices and schools and eating something organic from the farmers’ market and there won’t be a bloodstain or a bullet anywhere because you’ll have settled down, and put all that running around with that maniac Sherlock Holmes behind you...”

John actually laughs at this, a cross between a derisive snort and a hiccup. He must know it’s true, that Mary--like any woman--wouldn’t want him running off with Sherlock at all hours, doing something stupid, reckless, and dangerous. 

“People do this, I’m told. Give up their friendships to forge deeper, more mature relationships with their spouses. They move on, find new friends. Perhaps this would be acceptable if what we had was only friendship, John. But it’s more than that. Ask them,” he says, gesticulating to the audience, “ask any of them what we were, what we are. We’ve never been ‘just friends’. From the moment we met, things were _more_. We both knew it, though neither of us could acknowledge it at the time. When I met you, you ripped the veil off the world for me. You, John. You unassuming man, my conductor of light. 

“Ask Molly, how it grieved me to leave you. Ask Mrs. Hudson, who has graciously put up with me the past few weeks as I’ve caused more damage to our flat -- _our_ flat, John -- in my inability to deal with these feelings, these _emotions_ that threaten to destroy me utterly. Ask Lestrade. His squad still has a sweepstake open, did you know that? 

“Ask yourself, John. What were we? I think you know as well as I do.” 

Sherlock clasps his hands together now, brings them to his lips a moment and looks at John, who has finally managed to meet his eyes, where Sherlock sees that his brilliant anger has dissipated into a combination of confusion, disbelief, and fatigue. 

This is hard. Very hard.

“I can never seem to apologise enough for leaving you. I honestly did not know how much it would affect you. I was so foolish. Stupid. Blind. Unable to see what was in front of my own eyes. There are so many things I should have done, and so many things I should have done better. I should have told you how much you meant to me, how much I depend on you to keep me right. How much I enjoy your presence. I should have done this immediately upon my return. You told me the day we met that I was an idiot, and I do not deny it now. 

“I am but a rude and recalcitrant prick who has very few redeeming qualities aside from a high-functioning brain that occasionally saves the rest of the world from the incompetence of the justice system in order to counter the oppressive ennui of existence. Yet, despite my many, many faults, you’ve chosen me as your best man. I have tried to fulfil my obligations in regards to your nuptials, but I realise now that I should have taken up the position on the day I met you. For you, John, have always been _my_ best man, my _only_ man. My best friend, warden of my well being and my heart. I have spent the majority of my life without you, but it was only the years I spent with you that I was well and truly alive. You are never boring.”

John sniffs, then swallows. He licks his lips. His hands are clasped behind his back, jaw tight and head lifted. But his eyes -- even those in the back of the audience can see those eyes, softened now, shining with moisture. His heart is on display: here is a man torn in two, and everyone in the audience knows it, knows where Sherlock is heading next. No one seems to know better than Mary, who sinks down onto the steps and wraps her arms around herself. Sherlock feels for her, he really does, but he’s lost John once and if he stops now, he will hate himself forever. He takes a long, shaky breath, and meets John’s eyes. He nearly can’t finish under the intensity of it. John’s emoting so many things at once Sherlock can’t distinguish exactly what the man is thinking. But there’s no stopping now.

“Oh, I know--despite what everyone else thinks--we have never even so much as touched one another romantically. You might even have thought me incapable of it. I know my obvious reaction to the Woman confused you. And I will confess, John, that she deeply fascinated me. But only my intellect was aroused, not my libido. Adler’s undoubted beauty, soft curves and willing flesh stimulated my mind only to consider how very much more I might have preferred it, if a certain Army doctor, so ostensibly unremarkable, but so beautiful to me, and all I could ever hope for...the very epitome of my desire, were to insinuate himself beneath my duvet one lonely night. She taught me a very important lesson, you know, that night at Battersea. It was the first time I saw our potential as lovers: you were jealous. Adler knew, too, saw it in your eyes, written all over your face. You insisted you were not gay - which you’re not, for the most part, except for a few dalliances in the Army you would rather not acknowledge.” He pauses a moment, grimacing as John blushes. “Sorry. Anyway, _look at us both_ , she’d said. So I looked. I think you know what I saw.”

Sherlock sighs, looking at Mary, who meets his eyes from her place on the steps. She’s hurt and very angry. But by some miracle she lets him continue.

“I do not doubt that you love this woman,” he appeals to John, who still won’t meet his eyes. “Even I, for as much as I want to, cannot even bring myself to hate her, despite her poor fashion choices and bad taste in literature. She’s been kind to me, accepting me as your friend and even allowing me the ‘privilege’ of planning most of today, a task I have earnestly tried to perform to the best of my ability even though it was more challenging than working with forensic investigators with substandard IQs. 

“You are interesting, Mary Morstan, I’ll give you that, even though there’s still something off about you that gives me pause. And I know you love John and would do everything in your power to ensure your future together. So trust me when I say this is nothing personal.”

Mary’s face is a mixture of emotions: cautious, furious, concerned, indignant. She opens her mouth to speak, several times, but nothing comes out. For once, she’s rendered silent. Sherlock continues to speak to her, though he keeps his physical distance.

“It would also be remiss of me to fail to thank you. Mary, I owe you my deepest gratitude for loving this man when I could not. For helping him through the grief I caused him. I know you think you can offer him everything he wants in a woman: humor, kindness, strength, friendship, loyalty. You are a formidable woman. I suppose that’s what this all boils down to. I am decidedly _not_ a woman.”

John makes a funny little noise again, and Sherlock’s afraid his friend just might come unglued any moment. He’d best finish. 

“I do not have a woman’s body. I cannot offer you pert breasts, full hips, or dainty feet. I cannot bear your children. But, with your help and patience, I could be what you need. I can cherish you, honor you, protect you, make you laugh. I can be faithful. What I lack in...certain social graces...you can teach me. And what you lack in sexual experience with men, I could teach you.

“I shall never leave you again. I cannot apologise enough for the pain I caused you. If only I could have found the words, John, to tell you how I felt. It would have worked, I know it. We would have stumbled in the doorway one night after a brilliant 9, or fallen asleep against each other under my coat, or got ourselves kidnapped, and it would have happened. We would have reached for one another and become physically intimate.

“But events overtook us: Moriarty had deduced your importance to me, even before I had done the same; our friendship alone rendered it nearly impossible for me to leave you, which I had to do to save your life, even though hurting you as I did nearly broke my heart…because, John…”

John walks forward and places a finger on Sherlock’s lips to stem the flow of words. He smiles into Sherlock’s eyes; Sherlock’s eyebrows come together in confusion, and then his expression softens. He is quiet. 

John then he turns to Mary, who is still sitting dejectedly on the steps. “I’m sorry. I honestly had no idea…” he confesses.

Mary looks sceptical. “Really?” Her eyes are sad. “Oh, John. How could you not?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Sherlock tells her softly, voice audibly less worried than before, before turning back to John. Their eyes meet, lock gazes. “I’m not going to tell you cannot marry her, but if I had had any foresight whatsoever and even the slightest bit of your courage, it would have been me opposite you now, pledging to you what I now know has always been yours: my heart. I love you, John Hamish Watson. I love you with every molecule of my being, and therefore I object to your marriage.”

If this scene were from a romance, it would be at this moment that the audience would erupt in cheers, John would leap from the altar into Sherlock’s arms in a turbulent moment of passion, Mary would slink away into the corner and the vicar would marry the two of them instantly and they would live happily ever after, or something to that effect.

If this scene were from a soap opera, Mary would storm up to Sherlock and slap him round the face, then burst into tears, stamp on her bouquet and thrust the bedraggled stems at John in disgust. Janine would slap John, grab Mary, and put supportive arms around her as she led her out of the church--somehow managing to wink at Sherlock and slipping him her phone number in the process.

If this scene were from a romantic comedy, Mary would say, “Well, it’s about damn time,” and the three of them would embrace, laughing good-naturedly about how they were going to arrange an open marriage.

If this scene were from an action film, it would be at this moment that Mary would hitch up her dress, pull a gun from her garter and shoot Sherlock in the foot before delivering a roundhouse kick to the vicar’s head and running off with the bridesmaids in a hail of bullets, John shouting streams of creative invective behind her.

If this scene were a drama, John would calmly take Sherlock by the shoulders and firmly tell him that he’s got it all wrong, and that the great detective has simply misinterpreted all the physical and verbal cues. He is, after all, a sociopath. It’s okay, though, they can still be friends, but can you please take him back to that nice rehab clinic for help, please, Lestrade? He’s ruining my wedding, poor deluded sod. 

If this scene were a 1970s porn film, John’s moustache would suddenly reappear, Mary’s hair would get a lot blonder and a lot longer, a disco ball would drop from the ceiling and everyone would get naked and get off, in various combinations.

But this scene resides within the mind of a man who has deleted nearly all of the above. He has no frame of reference with which to conclude, and he is terrified of whatever John may say next. His mind cannot complete it. Emotional overload: system malfunction.

In Sherlock’s scenario, no one says anything. 

In fact, the audience has disappeared. The bridesmaids dissolve into the air. Mary fades into nothingness. 

There is John, only John, and John’s face, his blue, blue eyes...

And then, the only sound in the Mind Palace Cinema is the thup-thup, thup-thup, thup-thup of a projector that has run out of film.


	7. Forever Hold Your Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sherlock thought giving a best man's speech was hard, how will he handle his own wedding ceremony?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it goes. The Holmes-Watson wedding. Now, regarding spawn of Watson. No, I didn’t kill her off. Betty was having none of that, so Abigail Watson does exist, she is John’s daughter, and she makes a small appearance here. She does not live with them and I hope I’ve handled her existence in a realistic way. Don’t worry, she’s on the back burner. But couldn't not have her at her dad's wedding.
> 
> Read on!

Forever Hold Your Peace

 

“Hey.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open. It was very dark and rather cool. John stands before him, tapping him gently on the arm. 

“Did you smoke the whole packet, then?” John laughs.

Sherlock observes the ground. He may have. “Sorry,” he mutters, although he knows that his occasional indulgences don’t bother his lover as much as they used to. Trivial, really, after all they’ve been through.

John sits next to him. “Not nervous, are you?”

Sherlock shakes his head, takes a deep breath. The leaves are on the cusp of changing; he can smell it. “We’re getting married tomorrow,” he says, ignoring the fact he’s stating the obvious. It still doesn’t seem real, somehow. 

“Today,” corrects John. “You don’t even know what time it is, do you?”

“Late.”

“Yeah.” John leans back on the bench, stretches. 

“Lestrade go easy on you, then?” John smells of the pub, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. He reeks of tobacco himself.

“Don’t want to be hungover. So I called it a night and went home. You weren’t there.”

“Mmm.”

“Reckoned you’d be here.” They sit in companionable silence for awhile. Sherlock takes John’s hand. The breeze heralds autumn.

John says nothing. He has grown wiser over their years together.

“I wanted to stop your wedding,” Sherlock says at last. 

John huffs out a little laugh. 

“The night before you married her I sat just here and worked out exactly what I would say.”

“Maybe you should have,” he replies. “It would have saved us a hell of a lot of trouble.” Then, “Why didn’t you?”

“Pointless. It wouldn’t have worked.”

John nods, licks his lip. “No. It wouldn’t have. We weren’t ready then. I wasn’t, anyhow.”

Sherlock squeezes John’s hand and stretches a bit. He’s been on the bench for a while. 

“How?” John asks at last. “How would the great Sherlock Holmes have interrupted my wedding?”

“I don’t know. Just deleted it,” Sherlock deadpans. He stares at John for a moment in the dark, before his eyes soften and his lips curl into a smile.

“You arse.”

“I was going to. Seems unnecessary to keep.”

A constable walks his beat through the park. He doesn’t even bother with the two of them any more. No lock or fence would deter Sherlock, anyway. “Don’t get rid of it,” says John when they are alone again. “Tell me about it one day. When we’re old and you’ve pissed me off.”

Sherlock rubs his thumb over John’s hand. John rubs back. Small intimacies, Sherlock thinks, small intimacies that mean so much. Theirs is the language of small intimacies, right from the very start: raised eyebrows, the quirk of lips, a touch held a second too long. A laugh in the dark. Shared silence. A drink in front of the fire.

“Let’s go home,” says John eventually. “Big day tomorrow. And I’m completely knackered. You are too, I can tell.”

Sherlock doesn’t argue. They walk through the park hand-in-hand, in silence. The door to 221b closes silently behind them. They skip the squeaky eighth step without thinking about it. The lights stay off. No one bothers with teeth. They leave their clothes over the chair in their bedroom before collapsing in bed. Sherlock curls to his side; John spoons him, breath hot and moist between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock finds John’s arm, pulls it over him. _Such a funny thing, love is,_ Sherlock thinks as he relaxes. He falls asleep smiling.

 

***

The day of their wedding is breezy and chilly when the sun ducks behind the clouds, but at least the rain’s held off. They’ve opted for a very informal, late-afternoon wedding in Regent’s Park; Mycroft had little problem having Queen Mary’s Gardens designated as an official wedding venue. 

Sherlock met his parents at the train station earlier in the day, had lunch with them at Baker Street, and together they walked, albeit slowly, to the park. 

They meet Mycroft, whose familiar minions are finalising preparations. They are clearly enjoying themselves, too; one woman is securing a flower attachment over the arch of the marquee. It looks nice. Sherlock had reminded Mycroft that John insisted on keeping it simple. And it is simple, but Mycroft’s version of simple is always elegant.

Sherlock nods his approval after he’s seated his parents.

“Clearly, brother, you’re in the wrong line of work.”

Mycroft smirks smugly. “It’s not for you. After all the headaches you’ve caused me the past decade? I think not. This is for John.”

Sherlock attempts a rejoinder, but finds himself unable to respond. He frowns instead.

Mycroft sighs dramatically, picks a piece of invisible lint. “I am very pleased to see you finally wed,” he manages. “Perhaps I have given you a lot of ill advice concerning emotional attachment. Consider this my atonement.”

They stand for a moment in awkward silence before nodding at one another in an unspoken acknowledgement of brotherly affection. 

Lestrade arrives and shakes Mycroft’s hand. He asks what he can do to help; Mycroft suggests they wait at the gate for guests to arrive. Sherlock hears Lestrade laugh, loudly, as he and his brother walk down the long path toward the entrance of the gardens. 

Sherlock goes to sit by his parents. His mother is smiling effusively even though the ceremony itself is still an hour away. Sherlock’s dad has his aged hands wrapped around the handle of a cherry-wood cane, and he’s enjoying being outside and in London. Talking to them is less tedious with John around.

John has spent most of the day at Mike’s place, convinced that spending the day apart was not only traditional but a way to build anticipation. (Sherlock had told John that there was no need to build anticipation, and then showed him just how much he anticipated being legally married with a morning blow job. John left anyway.)

Sherlock studies his father, who sits quietly, contentedly, as his mother goes on about the changes to the park since she was a child. His father’s hands are still large, slender, and strong, though they are now spotted with age and the knuckles have swollen. The one grasping the cane still bears the wedding ring he’s always worn, even though he married long before rings became traditional for men. Sherlock wonders if his father has ever removed it, wonders how his own will feel. He will wear one, too. John had seemed genuinely surprised when Sherlock suggested they go and choose, and was even more surprised when Sherlock selected a plain gold design that would clearly mark him as a married man. 

Studying his father is interesting. Sherlock’s always identified more with his mother, shares her eye colour and her wit. In his youth, Sherlock found his father incredibly boring and painfully normal, with his cardigans and his gardening and dog-walking. It wasn’t until a few years ago that he saw the two of them, his father and John, engaged in conversation about something undoubtedly pointless, that he realized how similar the two of them were. Would John still be there by his side, years from now, wedding ring bright on the wrinkled skin of his small hands, hands that would likely once again grasp a cane? Would they still be here into old age, Sherlock nattering on about some experiment while John contemplated shapes in the clouds? Or would John die early, as his own mother and father both did, and leave Sherlock sitting on the bench in Regent’s Park alone, fiddling with the latest technology with arthritic fingers?

“Sherlock, love, stop worrying. He’ll be here in a moment. You’re acting like he’s not going to turn up.”

Sherlock frowns at his mother. Does he look worried? “Well, what if he doesn’t?” he blurts out. 

“Do you leave John at moments of great personal significance?”

Two sets of icy eyes glare at each other. “That’s not fair, mother.”

“Well, that’s exactly _why_ he will be here.” Her lips twitch up into a half-smile.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson arrives, walking down the path on Mycroft’s arm, and Sherlock goes to help her to her seat next to his parents. Mrs. Hudson is looking very frail as of late, and her makeup, although still precisely applied, doesn’t quite cover her pallor. As he watches her chat with his parents, Sherlock deduces. Maximum life spans appear above their heads before he realises it. The three of them don’t have that much longer. He has always accepted death as an inevitable part of life, to be accepted and embraced and not fussed about. Then he died and changed his mind. They look happy there, undoubtedly telling stories about John and himself. Sherlock may occasionally find his parents insufferable, but he is deeply happy that they are here today, to see him marry John. He wishes John’s parents were here as well, although John has intimated that they would not have been as enthusiastic to see their son marry another man. (They wouldn’t have forgiven him for divorcing Mary, anyway, John insists).

Molly arrives next with Abigail, who is carrying her tiny violin case. She’s dressed in an ensemble that fits her personality perfectly. She’s not wearing some gaudy bridesmaid’s frock, but patterned trousers with frills at the bottom, a little cable-knit cardigan and a navy-blue beret, purchased by the detective himself. That Sherlock should be interested in a young girl’s wardrobe given to his aversion to anything dealing with or made for anyone under eighteen makes John shake his head and click his tongue. Nevertheless, Sherlock insists on buying clothes for the girl he’s come to love and accept as his stepdaughter. If anyone asks, Sherlock says he’s saving Abigail from her mother’s poor fashion choices. Abigail herself enjoys a trip to the shops with Sherlock, and John simply shakes his head and lets them go. 

Bonding with John’s daughter wasn’t exactly easy for Sherlock. While he’d sporadically spent time with her during her infancy and toddler years, after John moved back into Baker Street, Sherlock’s interaction with her was always awkward and stiff. John blamed it on Sherlock’s discomfort in Mary’s flat, for most of the visits were there, as that’s where all of things that children seem to need to survive infanthood were, and Mary insisted (rightly) that Baker Street wasn’t babyproof.

When she was three Abigail began periodic visits to Baker Street, and Sherlock attempted, uncomfortably, to be more than “that man daddy lives with.” Fatherhood fit him poorly at first, and he wore the role uncomfortably, until he was forced to deal with it one weekend when Mary was out of town and John was called in to cover a colleague’s shift. There was a great deal of tantrumming from the two of them, until late in the evening when they somehow came to a truce. John had returned home to find Sherlock looking completely exhausted and playing something soft on the violin, Abigail asleep on the sofa with her thumb in her mouth. Now that she’s six, Sherlock finds himself actually able to engage in conversation with her, and, most of the time, he enjoys her company. Contact is flexible, but John and Abigail usually see each other at least once a week, and Mary and John have remained civil about the whole thing. Sometimes John berates himself for not being a better dad, and Sherlock wonders if John regrets his decision to leave life as a father behind. John insists that he has made the right choice and gets incredibly upset if Sherlock suggests otherwise.

Sherlock’s been trying to change his pronouns when he speaks of her, from “your daughter” to “our daughter,” but the words get stuck. Abigail looks so much like Mary that it is impossible to forget that she’s _theirs_ , not his and John’s. John says that acceptance, too, will come with time. For now, Abigail calls him “Sherlock” and they like microscopes and mud and reading. She’s even taken up the violin, and while she’s not a prodigy, Sherlock believes that she shows developing skill for someone her age. John’s daughter will never live at Baker Street -- when the truth is told, neither John nor Sherlock wants to be a full-time father -- but John’s old room has been designated as hers for when she occasionally sleeps over. Molly enjoys babysitting, and indeed Mary dropped Abigail off with Molly that morning. The relationship between them may well be cordial, but she doesn’t want to attend the wedding of her former husband on the day he marries his best friend. (Sherlock does not blame her. He does not want to particularly see her during the ceremony, either).

On his wedding day, Sherlock is glad Abigail is here, to see her father marry the man who has always been on the periphery of her life take more of a central focus. It will make John happy, too.

The girl, blonde and petite, lets go of Molly’s hand and hugs Sherlock around his thighs. He squats down to see her better, being careful not to wrinkle his trousers too badly. “Happy wedding day,” she says. Sherlock tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and straightens her beret. 

“You look very beautiful,” he tells her sincerely.

Abigail wrinkles her nose, shrugs, and then remembers to say thank you. For as much as she enjoys the designer outfits, beauty doesn’t mean much to her (for now), for which Sherlock is fiercely thankful. He can deduce a few things about her personality even at her young age: she’s very clever, has a charming sense of humour, and will give John and Mary (John and him, he corrects) a hell of a time when she’s in her teens. She’s already asked to go clay pigeon shooting with Mary (is that what the assassin calls target practice these days?). Even though she can be precocious, she’s also highly empathic and is prone to bouts of quiet introspection. She’s very much John’s daughter, despite her resemblance to her mother. Sherlock loves her as much as he can love a child, and he’s accepted that she is part his life now. If being with John means learning to become a good father, it’s a price he’ll willingly pay. 

“What’s a witness?” she asks as Sherlock stands. 

“It’s someone who personally observes or experiences something.”

“Like a crime?”

“Yes. Or, in this case, a public declaration with legal implications.”

“So I’m a witness.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m glad I’m a witness,” she says, licking her lower lip exactly the way her father does. “It’s like proof. Evidence. Right?” 

“Yes. Very good.”

“But you know what?” she continues as Sherlock leads her to the pavillion. “I don’t think you need evidence. I mean, for you and dad. It’s pretty obvious.”

Sherlock smiles. It _is_ pretty obvious.

“Is dad here?” she asks, looking around. 

“Not yet. But my mum and dad are. Do you want to sit with them?” 

Abigail heartily agrees. Sherlock’s dad always has sweets in his jacket pocket; Abigail learned quickly how to charm her way into his heart several Christmases ago. “Don’t be nervous,” she tells her soon-to-be stepfather as they cross the lawn. “Sometimes people get nervous on their wedding days, you know. But dad really loves you. He told me. Mum said so, too. I think you’re a great team.” She says this with such conviction that Sherlock can’t help but smile. 

“I think so, too,” he replies. 

Sherlock leaves Abigail with his parents and goes to stand next to Lestrade, who is serving as their second official witness (Mrs. Hudson insisted she do the honours as well). Lestrade nods at him, Sherlock nods back, and they stand there together companionably, in silence, waiting for John to arrive. Mycroft and Lestrade take turns seating the few friends and family they’ve chosen to witness the wedding ceremony. Sherlock’s itching for a cigarette (John’s patience only goes so far) when he sees hears the distinctive rumble of Mike’s Morgan (Mike is graciously letting them borrow it for an extended weekend honeymoon. Sherlock can’t deny he’s a bit giddy to drive John around in it). 

And then, there’s John himself, walking through the gate. Even at this distance, Sherlock deduces his mood from his posture and gait: John is confident, satisfied, and profoundly happy. As John approaches, Sherlock admires him. He’s older now than when they first met; his hair is completely grey, and the lines on his face have deepened, a testament to John’s expressive nature. But he’s taken to keeping fit these days, jogging several times a week and doing a basic military regime of push-ups and sit-ups every morning. His shoulder bothers him in the cold, but he never whinges; Sherlock rubs the knots out of it with his hands in front of the fire. Sherlock is struck again how much he adores John, not just his personality, but the package it comes in as well. John’s body is home, John’s body is love. Sherlock’s transport readily agrees.

Although he prefers casualwear to tailored clothing, John looks perfectly comfortable in his three-piece suit. He’s got a Watson tartan hanky tucked into the breast pocket, and Sherlock deduces that he’s wearing his silly blue and green polka-dot socks that for some reason he thinks are fashionable. What’s under those flattering trousers Sherlock cannot guess, but he’s thinking about the hair on John’s calves when John finally meets him in the garden. 

John smiles up at him. “Sherlock Homes,” he says, beaming, “today I’m going to make you a married man.”

The words should not affect him this way, but they do, sending a shiver right down his spine to his testicles. He cannot think of anything to say, as telling John that he’s beautiful would sound silly. Eventually he settles on, “Yes.” 

“You look fantastic,” says John, eyeing him. Maybe the whole anticipation thing was a good idea after all. In an effort not to repeat any element of John’s wedding to Mary, Sherlock opts for his own suit, but he has distinguished himself from his ordinary work wear by wearing the waistcoat. The dark purple shirt he used to wear and that John used to admire had long been discarded, but he paid homage to it by wearing a tie of the exact same shade, a plummy-fig that paired well with the dark wool of his jacket. He’s tried to tame his hair, but the wind has decided to get its fingers into it. That’s OK. He knows John likes it better wild, anyway.

They stand there smiling stupidly at each other for a moment before one of Mycroft’s people comes to see if they are ready to start the ceremony soon. John says he wants to see his daughter first, and he leans up to kiss Sherlock on the cheek before moving to the seats to Abigail. Sherlock watches him pick her up and kiss her before greeting the older Holmeses and Mrs. Hudson. 

The next twenty minutes or so are rather a blur. People arrive: Wiggins, who has scrubbed up remarkably well except for his red Converse. A few of John’s colleagues and his cousin Jane, with Archie, who is now nearly sixteen and still thinks Sherlock is the epitome of cool. Harry doesn’t make it, but in a way, Sherlock is relieved that John doesn’t have to be concerned about her - it’s their day, and Sherlock does not want anything but John’s happiness.

Soon, he and John are placed behind the seats, and then they walk down the centre aisle together, arms linked. When he gets to the front he remembers to hold John’s hands in his. Thankfully, there is no script to follow, none of those empty ceremonial rituals that simply had to be done at John’s wedding to Mary. 

Mycroft begins by welcoming those gathered and telling an anecdote about the first time he saw the grooms, when an assistant brought him a CCTV tape of John shaking Sherlock’s hand outside Baker Street the second time they met. He goes on to say how he knew John was a respectable person when the unassuming doctor failed to show the slightest bit of apprehension at Mycroft’s threats. The night after their first case together, the one with the pink lady, Mycroft tells the audience that he had never seen his brother so comfortable in his own skin. 

Sherlock thinks much of what his brother is saying is a load of bollocks. John is telling him as much with his eyes. _Want me to kick his arse?_ John thinks. _From here to Dover and back_ , replies Sherlock.

Mycroft invites Molly to read some poetry by Kahlil Gibran. This is not Sherlock’s idea, but John likes poetry and thought that it would do in place of some traditional diatribe about love and commitment. John holds Sherlock’s hands throughout. He steadily maintains eye contact, though he occasionally looks at his daughter, who waves at him, and smiles. He sniffs, wrinkling his nose that Sherlock finds endearing, and licks his lips. The muscles that control his eyebrows are particularly active today, lifting and twitching and making John look like John. _Finally_ , Sherlock thinks. _We finally worked this out_.

The poetry portion of the ceremony dispensed with, Sherlock’s father helps Abigail with her violin. She stays to the right of her father, takes a deep breath, nods at Sherlock, and begins playing. The fingers of Sherlock’s left hand move on John’s hand; he wrote the piece, after all. John has lived with him long enough to recognize an original Holmes composition, and he looks fondly at his daughter and then up at his companion. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers, even as Abigail bows a G rather flat. She gives a little curtsey when she’s done, eliciting a little amused clap from the audience, before giving her father and Sherlock a joint hug and returning to her spot next to her grandparents-to-be.

Then Mycroft is back. It’s time for the vows. His brother says some official sounding things, but Sherlock barely hears it. He’s staring at John and trying very hard not to get emotional. 

He’s failing horribly. 

All Sherlock can think about is standing behind John at that ill-fated wedding seven years ago, when he so badly wanted to interrupt, stop time, reverse the clock, confess his love. Part of him is still there, standing on the altar with John and Mary, mouthing along John’s vows in case he should forget them. He remembers the flowers and the music and the tedious folding of napkins. Sherlock was so thankful not to have had to seen John’s face as he said his vows, but Mary’s served as a mirror, reflecting joy and contentment (hateful). Sherlock had stood there, trying his best to be _good_ , to be the best man for John, the whips of remorse more stinging than any Serbian gaoler’s chain. 

He’s so caught up with his memories that when Mycroft begins the declaration _I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, speak now_ , he’s back in Bristol, at St. Mary Magdelene’s, but this time, _this_ time…

“No!”

The word falls from his lips before he realizes he’s spoken.

“Sherlock?” queries John. 

“No. I don’t want this.”

John visibly pales. Mycroft looks stricken. Sherlock’s mother has her hand over her mouth and Abigail’s eyebrows are crunched together in confusion. She looks to Mrs. Hudson for support, who clasps her hand. Lestrade’s mouth has fallen open and Molly’s set her jaw.

The wind chooses this time to gust through Queen Mary’s Garden and the roses on the marquee; they tremble, then go still. If birds still sing, the clouds march on overhead, or children play on the opposite side of the garden, no one notices. For those gathered, London comes to a complete standstill as Sherlock Holmes struggles to pull himself out of the past and back into his wedding.

For one awful minute John tries to make sense of what’s happening. “Oh,” he says, hurt to the core of his being. “OK. Well. I guess I’m just going to…” John moves back, letting go of Sherlock’s hands, but the detective is quick to grab them back. 

“No,” he repeats for the third time, but this time he’s firmly in the present. “Not you, John. For you, yes, always. Yes. Absolutely, yes.” John lets out a breath and the world begins to turn again.

“I don’t want that line,” Sherlock says pointedly to Mycroft. “It’s not necessary. Because even if there were some legal reason I couldn’t marry this man, I would find a way to circumnavigate it. Such laws are stupid and _cruel_ and I’ll not have it at my wedding. No one gets to object to this.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow but remains silent. 

Sherlock turns to the man he’s chosen to be his husband. “John, I wanted nothing more than to stop you marrying Mary. I thought of poisoning myself. I wanted to let spiders loose. Sabotage of the worse kind, finding some way to ruin it for you, even confessing myself but I didn’t, I _couldn’t_ , because everyone has a right to marry whom they love, even you. Even if… even if it wasn’t me.”

John swallows. His lower lip mashes up into his top one and his eyes turn shiny.

“You are the only person I could possibly marry,” he continues. “No one else would have the patience or kindness to be my friend, let alone my spouse. I owe you a profound debt simply for allowing me to share your life with you. I want to grow old with you, I want to…

John wipes tears from his eyes. “Stop, love,” he says softly, and then kisses Sherlock’s mouth, a soft press of lips. Sherlock quiets, realizing everyone’s staring. “It’s fine. I know. Let’s just do the vows, yeah?”

Taking a shaky breath, Sherlock nods. “Vows, yes. Of course.” 

John then turns to the audience. “If any of you object to my marrying this man,” he says seriously and loud enough for everyone to hear, “you can forever hold your bloody peace.”

And Sherlock laughs and sniffs and cries and smiles, smiles, smiles.

***

Amazingly, the rest of the wedding goes off without a hitch. John repeats the vows he’s written confidently; Sherlock actually blubbers a bit with his own. Something’s wrong with his eyes, as they seem to keep clouding over with tears. He blinks them back, then his nose runs. He’s aware that Lestrade is getting a kick out of it, but Sherlock’s not embarrassed or ashamed. He’s wept for John before, and he likely will again. They exchange rings. Mycroft pronounces them wed. They kiss (oh, naughty, John!). Sherlock faces the small audience. He’s smiling so much his cheeks actually ache. 

People mingle; the marriage certificate is issued. Everyone congratulates them and there is hugging. Sherlock finds he doesn’t mind, even when he notices a group of girls on the outskirts of the gardens with their phones. They’ve been discovered, then. He gives them a little wave, eliciting a few shrill screams of delight. John can deal with the fans on the blog. They’d just calmed down from his simple confirmation (Yeah, if you’ve seen us out together lately, it’s what you think it is) of their relationship a year ago, too. Clients still arrived in a steady stream and someone finally collected a long-standing office bet at Scotland Yard. 

The breeze picks up and rain threatens, which prompts everyone to quickly head to the exit. Sherlock takes a rose from the marquee and tucks it in the lapel of his suit jacket as Mycroft’s minions begin dismantling and picking up the chairs. He clasps John’s hand, their fingers laced together, as they walk slowly toward the gate. 

“You know,” says John, “I quite fancy just walking home to Baker Street. Skip the whole thing.”

“Nah,” replies Sherlock. 

John gives him the eye.

“What? I’m actually hungry.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curve down the way they do when he smiles sideways at John, the smile that’s only for him.

John says something lewd in response, shoves him a bit with his shoulder. 

They walk away from Queen Mary’s Gardens, which will one day boast a plaque that reads “Site of Wedding of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson.”

***

If Angelo Peretti had not placed a candle on the table all those years ago, Sherlock may never seen the potential of John as a romantic partner. John still swears that he had no ulterior motives when he asked Sherlock if the detective was attached to someone, that he just wanted to know, but Sherlock still recalls his deductions: ability to form deep, emotional relationships with men, repressed bisexuality, lost confidence, loyal, moderately clever, and desperately lonely. _I’m not his date,_ John protested to Angelo, and Sherlock knew _but you could be. One day. If I were interested in that sort of thing._

Angelo and Mrs. Hudson have a friendly rivalry about who was the first to see that the doctor and the detective belong together. Mike really claims that prize, but no one currently cares. They figured it out, and that’s all that matters.

Tonight, Angelo has pulled out all the stops for the reception, closing to the public and bringing out course after course of the finest he can offer. Sherlock actually eats. He drinks several glasses of an excellent Barolo 2005 from Angelo’s personal cellar. He deduces that everyone in the place is delighted for them, and while he has never before cared what other people think of him, he’s pleased that his relationship with John is met with acceptance and support. Makes it easier for John, at least.

A portion of the restaurant has been cleared for a makeshift dance floor. Mike, of all people, is serving as a DJ, playing music from his Macbook. A few of the guests dance, including Sherlock’s mother and father. Wiggins takes Molly for a spin, showing off another latent talent. John has flat out refused to dance in public again, but he promises Sherlock that later, when it’s just the two of them, they can waltz around the flat all Sherlock would like. (They’d had a bit of a row about the dancing; Sherlock accused John of being embarrassed to dance with a man. John assured him that it wasn’t. Sometimes Sherlock still needs lessons in sentiment: _God, Sherlock. The way you looked at me, then. After my dance with Mary. I knew. Oh, God, I knew, and it was too late._ Plus, argued John, dancing was only likely to give him a massive stiffy and if there was one thing Mycroft _never_ needed to see, it was that).

Around eight, Mary arrives to pick up Abigail. It’s actually not nearly as awkward as it could be. She actually hugs both John and Sherlock and whispers her congratulations. Sure, the turn of her mouth reveals she’s still bitter, but she’s also a woman well-versed in letting go of her past. Abigail’s been dancing with Lestrade and Molly: she looks exhausted under her flushed cheeks. 

“Can I still call you Sherlock?” she asks the detective as she gives him a goodbye hug. “Or should I call you dad, too?”

“Either suits,” says Sherlock, “though I think I’d prefer my given name.”

She wrinkles her nose in a way that’s all Mary. “Me too. You don’t look like a dad.” _Thank God_ Sherlock thinks. “I think you had a really good wedding.”

“A wonderful wedding,” he corrects, and kisses her cheek.

They leave, and soon Angelo brings out a wedding cake. John had suggested Angelo’s signature tiramisu but Sherlock’s mother’s neighbour (and owner of the village bakery) insisted she do the honours. Sherlock acquiesced, if only because her confections are so delicious they could bring about world peace. (They did in fact bring peace to the Holmes household on more than one occasion, and that’s close enough). Mycroft announces it’s time to cut the cake (fitting, thinks Sherlock) and people begin to gather at the back of the restaurant where there’s a buffet table set up for this type of thing. They slice the traditional three tiers together, with a knife that looks like it belongs in an Indiana Jones film and most certainly didn’t come from the kitchen. People return to their tables with a slice each and are served coffee and tea. 

Full and content, Sherlock thinks that maybe this is the time he and John escape back to Baker Street and have sex until they drop of sheer exhaustion when there is a pounding on the door that cannot be ignored. Angelo opens it, annoyed at the man’s insistence and tries to tell him that there’s a private gathering and the restaurant is closed to the public. The man actually pushes past Angelo (no easy feat) and looks around wildly. His hair is sticking to his head, little rivulets of rain trickle down his face and neck and into his coat.

“Mr. Holmes!” he shouts, looking around. “Dr. Watson!”

The noise of the party quiets as the two men in question emerge from the crowd. 

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” says the dripping man, panting a bit. He suddenly takes in the scene -- the guests eating cake, the music, the formal attire -- and realises he’s possibly ruined a very special affair. “Um, is this, did you, are you…?”

“Our wedding?” supplies Sherlock. “Yes. So this had better be good.”

The man takes a deep breath, considering bowing out. One does not want to evoke the wrath of anyone on his wedding day, much less London’s only consulting detective. Greed wins out.

“My name is Solomon Broad. Someone’s stolen _Miss Christ_!”

Most of the guests, including Sherlock, react as is the newcomer is speaking a foreign language.

“Ooh, that’s that sculpture of Conchita Wurst dressed like Jesus,” supplies Wiggins, who’d spent a rainy Eurovision night round at Mrs Hudson’s, and had followed the victorious Austrian’s career ever since. “Made out of diamonds, worth a bloody bomb.”

“The who what?” Sherlock says quietly to John.

“Eurovison winner,” John whispers back. “Quite the voice. Gorgeous lady - with a beard. On the telly a few years back. You were quite rapt, remember?”

Sherlock blinks. Nope. Deleted. Shame.

“Two million pounds, to be precise,” says the uninvited guest, still dripping onto the floor. “I saw it delivered to the gallery this morning, and have not left the premises until just now: but somehow, whilst the front door and windows were closed, and we were all on site at a staff meeting, the sculpture has been taken!” 

“Hm. Stolen contemporary art,” Sherlock muses.

“Sounds bloody ugly,” murmurs John.

“Undoubtedly. What kind of a name is Conchita Wurst, anyway?”

“The _Wurst_ one I can think of.” 

Sherlock smiles. He likes this game. “It’s likely the _Wurst_ sculpture ever made, too.”

“The thief has the _Wurst_ timing.”

“Could go down as the _Wurst_ case we’ve ever had.”

“I’ll call this case “The Bearded Bling Ring’.”

They giggle.

“Gentlemen, please!” pleads the curator.

Sherlock considers. The case is barely a five. In fact, he could likely solve it right on the spot if he hadn’t had as much to eat as he did. He’s also a bit tipsy -- not good for deductions. Normal people are supposed to go home and consummate the marriage, not chase thieves all over London.

But then again, he and John are far from normal.

John looks at him, questioning and expectant. “What do you think?” he asks.

“I don’t know. It _is_ our wedding night. It’s raining. And it could be dangerous.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you have your gun?” he asks quietly, eyebrow raised.

“Seriously, Sherlock. What kind of a man brings a gun to his own wedding?” Has his gun? Of course he does. 

“My kind of man.” Sherlock’s voice is a deep rumble.

They grin at each other, two fools in love.

Someone starts clinking a fork against a glass; within moments the small restaurant rings with the noise. Sherlock swoops in and kisses John soundly to the backdrop of whistles and cheers.

“Right,” Sherlock says at last, stepping back and clapping his hands together. “Attention, everyone!” he says as he finds his coat and shrugs it on. Thank you everyone for coming and et cetera; we’ve had a lovely time. Angelo? Pack up some cake with Mrs. Hudson. Wouldn't want Mycroft eating it all, now, would we?” He winks at his brother, who takes the barb good-naturedly; the rivalry has been suspended, for now. 

Sherlock kisses his mother and Molly, shakes the appropriate hands, slaps the appropriate backs. “Stay and amuse yourselves and...do whatever people do at these things.” The guests chuckle. 

“Mr. Broad!” shouts Sherlock, winding his scarf around his neck, “we’ll take the case. Come, husband.” He offers his arm, which John glances at dubiously. Sherlock gives him a withering look. “Oh, just this once,” he says softly. John studies him; Sherlock pouts a bit -- can’t John see that he is being completely genuine? Oh, right. He is still Sherlock Holmes. He will still race ahead, and John? John will still follow. But tonight, no. Tonight Sherlock wants John to know just how much he really means. John _does_ keep him right. John reins him him, his fixed point. A comet hurtles through space until a star pulls it back, and it always returns, cold ice melting and turning it into a brilliant cosmic phenomenon. It’s how they’ve defined themselves for years.

But no more running, no more leaving and returning. It’s new territory, one to be explored side-by-side. They’re crossing a threshold, but he certainly won’t be carrying John over one. The best he can do now is rely on symbolism and hope his spouse gets the point. “Together?” he asks softly.

John raises his eyebrows and nods. He looks rather goofy, actually, silly smile on his face, cheeks flushed with mirth and wine. “Yeah. OK, then. Together.” John links their arms together and Sherlock has never felt more complete. 

“The game,” he announces with the glee of a child, “is _on_!”

They bound out the door to general applause; the little bell rings behind them.

“Well,” says Lestrade, frowning into his lager as the guests return their attention to their desserts, “Can’t say that’s entirely unexpected.”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” sighs Molly. “For them, I mean. It’s...perfect.”

And it was.

***

**From the Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson**

_September 14._

Hello. As many of you may already know, John and are are now married, so you can stop haranguing him for his phone number or second-guessing his sexuality. He wanted to be the one to type this up, but as he is currently indisposed, I believe that as his husband, I have the right to hack his blog at whim. Granted, I did that anyway before I married him, but now I shall do so more frequently just because I can. 

I am certain that a few pictures of the event will surface online. If I appear to be leaking about the eyes, be assured that there was a dreadful wind and that I could scarcely see because of it. 

Our reception was interrupted by a Mr. Broad, of the White Oval Gallery of Contemporary Art in Hoxton Square. He informed us that a valuable and highly controversial work was missing and he was anxious to regain possession in case religious zealots destroyed it. The case itself took us on a wild chase through most of the evening and into this morning. At one point we had to pose as mannequins in a shop window. I thought I did a superior job, although John kept fidgeting and trying to make me laugh. He was also extremely distracting because he looks very handsome in a suit. 

John and I returned earlier this afternoon after recovering the piece. Because I was feeling generous on my wedding day, I suggested that the gallery not press charges but instead require that the perpetrator make a generous donation to a charity of the gallery’s choice. Gay Switchboard should expect a substantial donation soon. (Don’t worry -- John will likely write up all the details later.) 

When we finally arrived back to Baker Street, John said that he was pleased there was a distraction to keep my interest, as he knows that I usually find formal celebrations of sentiment tedious and boring. I assured him that our wedding was appropriately sentimental and decidedly not boring, and it was only made slightly more wonderful by the addition of the case. A wedding gift, as it were. Then John also gave me a wedding gift, but he has forbidden me to speak of it publicly. 

I conclude by taking this opportunity to inform any criminals who may be reading this blog to kindly refrain from committing any interesting crimes until the time John and I return from our sex holiday. 

Yours faithfully,  
Sherlock Holmes-Watson

 

~Finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Conchita Wurst is fucking awesome.


End file.
